LIBRARY     I 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


KATHRINA 


DR.  J.  G.  HOLLAND'S  WRITINGS. 


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KATHRINA 


A    POEM 


BY 

J.    G.    HOLLAND 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1893. 


CorYRlGHT   BY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER  &  <"». 
1867 


COPYRIGHT  BV 

.f.  G   HOLLAND 

1881 


TROW'i 

PKINTINO  ADO  BOOKBHIDIna  COMP 
HI*  TWK. 


I    DEDICATE 

"KATHRINA" 

THE   WORK   OF   MY   HAND 
TO 

ELIZABETH 

THE    WIFE    OF    MY    HEART 


CONTENTS, 


fAGB 

A  TRIBUTE,      ,       .       <•       ,.,.,..     i 

PART  I. 

CHILDHOOD  AND  YOUTH,       •> fl 

COMPLAINT,      ,,..,,,,,.    47 

PART  II. 

LOVE,         ,  ,       ,       .        .    50 

A  REFLECTION, -  128 

PART  IIL 

LABOR,       .,,,..«•       *       •       -  is1 
DESPAIR,    .,.,,....».  194 

PART  IV. 
CONSUMMATION,  ••••••••  IQ& 


KATHRINA. 


A   TRIBUTE. 

MORE  human,  more  divine  than  we — 
In  truth,  half  human,  half  divine — 

Is  woman,  when  good  stars  agree 
To  temper  with  their  beams  benign 

The  hour  of  her  nativity. 

The  fairest  flower  the  green  earth  bears, 
Bright  with  the  dew  and  light  of  heaven. 

Is,  of  the  double  life  she  wears, 
The  type,  in  grace  and  glory  given 

By  soil  and  sun  in  equal  shares. 

True  sister  of  the  Son  of  Man  : 
True  sister  of  the  Son  of  God  : 

What  marvel  that  she  leads  the  van 
Of  those  who  in  the  path  he  trod, 

Still  bear  the  cross  and  wear  the  ban? 

i 


Kathrina. 

If  God  be  in  the  sky  and  sea, 

And  live  in  light  and  ride  the  storm, 

Then  God  is  God,  although  He  be 
Enshrined  within  a  woman's  form  ; 

And  claims  glad  reverence  from  me. 


So,  as  I  worship  Him  in  Christ, 

And  in  the  Forms  of  Earth  and  Air, 

I  worship  Him  imparadised, 
And  throned  within  her  bosom  fair 

Whom  vanity  hath  not  enticed. 


O  !    woman — mother  !     Woman — wife  ! — 
The  sweetest  names  that  language  knows! 

Thy  breast,  with  holy  motives  rife, 
With  holiest  affection  glows, 

Thou  queen,  thou  angel  of  my  life! 


Noble  and  fine  in  his  degree 

Is  the  best  man  my  heart  receives  ; 

And  this  my  heart's  suprcmest  plea 

For  him  :   he  feels,  acts,  lives,  believes, 

And  seems,  and  is,  the  likest  thce. 


Kathrina. 

O  men  !     O  brothers  !     Well  I  know 
That  with  her  nature  in  our  souls 

Is  born  the  elemental  woe — 

The  brutal  impulse  that  controls, 

And  drives,  or  drags,  the  godlike  low. 


Ambition,  appetite  and  pride — 

These  throng  and  thrall  the  hearts  of  men  : 
These  plat  the  thorns,  and  pierce  the  side 

Of  Him,  who,  in  our  souls  again, 
Is  spit  upon,  and  crucified. 


The  greed  for  gain,  the  thirst  for  power, 
The  lust  that  blackens  while  it  burns  : 

Ah !    these  the  whitest  souls  deflour ! 
And  one,  or  all  of  these  by  turns, 

Rob  man  of  his  divinest  dower  ! 


Yet  man,  who  shivers  like  a  straw 
Before  Temptation's  lightest  breeze, 

Assumes  the  master — gives  the  law 
To  her  who,  on  her  bended  knees, 

Resists  the  black-winged  thunder-flaw ! 


Kathrina. 

To  him  who  deems  her  weak  and  vain, 
And  boasts  his  own  exceeding  might, 

She  clings  through  darkest  fortune  fain  ; 
Still  loyal  though  the  ruffian  smite ; 

Still  true,  though  crime  his  hands  distain ! 


And  is  this  weakness  ?     Is  it  not 

The  strength  of  God,  that  loves  and  bears 
Though  He  be  slighted  or  forgot 

In  damning  crimes,  or  driving  cares, 
And  closest  clings  in  darkest  lot  ? 


Not  many  friends  my  life  has  made ; 

Few  have  I  loved,  and  few  are  they 
Who  in  my  hand  their  hearts  have  laid  ; 

And  these  were  women.  I  am  gray, 
But  never  have  I  been  betrayed. 


These  words — this  tribute — for  the  sake 

• 

Of  truth  to  God  and  womankind ! 
These — that  my  heart  may  cease  to  ache 

With  love  and  gratitude  confined, 
And  burning  from  my  lips  to  break ! 


Kathrina. 

These — to  that  sisterhood  of  grace 
That  numbers  in  its  sacred  list 

My  mother,  risen  to  her  place ; 

My  wife,  but  yester-morning  kissed, 

And  folded  in  Love's  last  embrace  ! 


This  tribute  of  a  love  profound 
As  ever  moved  the  heart  of  man, 

To  those  to  whom  my  life  is  bound, 
To  her  in  whom  my  life  began, 

And  her  whose  love  my  life  hath  crowned ! 


Immortal  Love !     Thou  still  hast  wings 
To  lift  me  to  those  radiant  fields, 

Where  Music  waits  with  trembling  strings, 
And  Verse  her  happy  numbers  yields, 

And  all  the  soul  within  me  sings. 


So  from  the  lovely  Pagan  dream 
I  call  no  more  the  Tuneful  Nine  ; 

For  Woman  is  my  Muse  Supreme ; 
And  she  with  fire  and  flight  divine, 

Shall  light  and  lead  me  to  my  theme. 


PART  I. 
CHILDHOOD   AND   YOUTH. 

THOU  lovely  vale  of  sweetest  stream  that  flows : 

Winding  and  willow-fringed  Connecticut ! 

Swift  to  thy  fairest  scenes  my  fancy  flies, 

As  I  recall  the  story  of  a  life 

Which  there  began  in  years  of  sinless  hope, 

And  merged  maturely  into  hopeless  sin. 

O  !   golden  dawning  of  a  day  of  storms, 

That  fell  ere  noontide  into  rayless  night ! 

O !    beautiful  initial,  vermeil-flowered, 

And  bright  with  cherub-eyes  and  effigies, 

To  the  black-letter  volume  of  my  life  ! 

O  !    faery  gateway,  gilt  and  garlanded, 

And  shining  in  the  sun,  to  gloomy  groves 

Of  shadowy  cypress,  and  to  sunless  streams, 

Feeding  with  bane  the  deadly  nightshade's  roots,- 

To  vexing  labyrinths  of  doubt  and  fear, 

And  deep  abysses  of  despair  and  death ! 

Back  to  thy  peaceful  villages  and  fields, 


Kathrina. 

My  memory,  like  a  weary  pilgrim,  comes 

With  scrip  and  burdon,  to  repose  awhile, — 

To  pluck  a  daisy  from  a  lonely  grave 

Where  long  ago,  in  common  sepulture, 

I  laid  my  mother  and  my  faith  in  God ; 

To  fix  the  record  of  a  single  day 

So  memorably  wonderful  and  sweet 

Its  power  of  inspiration  lingers  still, — 

So  full  of  her  dear  presence,  so  divine 

With  the  melodious  breathing  of  her  words, 

And  the  warm  radiance  of  her  loving  smile, 

That  tears  fall  readily  as  April  rain 

At  its  recall ;    to  pass  in  swift  review 

The  years  of  adolescence,  and  the  paths 

Of  glare  and  gloom  through  which,  by  passion  led 

I  reached  the  fair  possession  of  my  power, 

And  won  the  dear  possession  of  my  love, 

And  then — farewell ! 

Queen-village  of  the  meads 
Fronting  the  sunrise  and  in  beauty  throned, 
With  jewelled  homes  around  her  lifted  brow, 
And  coronal  of  ancient  forest  trees — 
Northampton  sits,  and  rules  her  pleasant  realm. 
There  where  the  saintly  Edwards  heralded 
The  terrors  of  the  Lord,  and  men  bowed  low 
Beneath  the  menace  of  his  awful  words  ; 


8  Kathrina. 

And  there  where  Nature,  with  a  thousand  tongues 
Tender  and  true,  from  vale  and  mountain-top, 
And  smiling  streams,  and  landscapes  piled  afar, 
Proclaimed  a  gentler  Gospel,  I  was  born. 

In  an  old  home,  beneath  an  older  elm — 

A  fount  of  weeping  greenery,  that  dripped 

Its  spray  of  rain  and  dew  upon  the  roof — 

I  opened  eyes  on  life  ;    and  now  return, 

Among  the  visions  of  my  early  years, 

Two  so  distinct  that  all  the  rest  grow  dim  : 

My  mother's  pale,  fond  face  and  tearful  eyes, 

Bent  upon  me  in  Love's  absorbing  trance, 

From  the  low  window  where  she  watched  my  play ; 

And,  after  this,  the  wondrous  elm,  that  seemed 

To  my  young  fancy  like  an  airy  bosk, 

Poised  by  a  single  stem  upon  the  earth, 

And  thronged  by  instant  marvels.     There  in  Spring 

I  heard  with  joy  the  cheery  blue-bird's  note  ; 

There  sang  rejoicing  robins  after  rain  ; 

And  there  within  the  emerald  twilight,  which 

Defied  the  mid-day  sun,  from  bough  to  bough — 

A  torch  of  downy  flame — the  oriole 

Passed  to  his  nest,  to  feed  the  censer-fires 

Which  Love  had  lit  for  Airs  of  Heaven  to  swing. 

There,  too,  through  all  the  weird  September-eves 

I  heard  the  harsh,  reiterant  katydids 


Kathrina. 

Rasp  the  mysterious  silence.     There  I  watched 

The  glint  of  stars,  playing  at  hide-and-seek 

Behind  the  swaying  foliage,  till  drawn 

By  tender  hands  to  childhood's  balmy  rest. 

My  Mother  and  the  elm !     Too  soon  I  learned 

That  o'er  me  hung,  and  o'er  the  widowed  one 

Who  gave  me  birth,  with  broader  boughs, 

Haunted  by  sabler  wings  and  sadder  sounds, 

A  darker  shadow  than  the  mighty  elm ! 

I  caught  the  secret  in  the  street  from  those 

Who  pointed  at  me  as  I  passed,  or  paused 

To  gaze  in  sighing  pity  on  my  play  ; 

From  playmates  who,  forbidden  to  divulge 

The  knowledge  they  possessed,  with  childish  tricks 

Of  indirection  strove  in  vain  to  hide 

Their  awful  meaning  in  unmeaning  phrase  ; 

From  kisses  which  were  pitiful ;    from  words 

Gentler  than  love's  because  compassionate ; 

From  deep,  unconscious  sighs  out  of  the  heart 

Of  her  who  loved  me  best,  and  from  her  tears 

That  freest  flowed  when  I  was  happiest. 

From  frailest  filaments  of  evidence, 

From  dark  allusions  faintly  overheard, 

From  hint  and  look  and  sudden  change  of  theme 

When  I  approached,  from  widely  scattered  words 

Remembered  well,  and  gathered  all  at  length 

Into  consistent  terms,  I  know  not  how 


IG  Kathrina. 

I  \vrought  the  full  conclusion,  nor  how  young. 
I  only  know  that  when  a  little  child 
I  learned,  though  no  one  told,  that  he  who  gave 
My  life  to  me  in  madness  took  his  own- 
Took  it  from  fear  of  want,  though  he  possessed 
The  finest  fortune  in  the  rich  old  town. 

Thenceforth  I  had  a  secret  which  I  kept — 

Kept  by  my  mother  with  as  close  a  tongue — 

A  secret  which  embittered  every  cup. 

It  bred  rebellion  in  me — filled  my  soul, 

Opening  to  life  in  innocent  delight, 

With  baleful  doubt  and  harrowing  distrust. 

Why,  if  my  father  was  the  godly  man 

His  gentle  widow  vouched  with  tender  tears, 

Did  He  to  whom  she  bowed  in  daily  prayer — 

Who  loved  us,  as  she  told  me,  with  a  love 

Ineffable  for  strength  and  tenderness — 

Permit  such  fate  to  him,  such  woe  to  us  ? 

Ah !    many  a  time,  repeating  on  my  knees 

The  simple  language  of  my  evening  prayer 

Which  her  dear  lips  had  taught  me,  came  the  dark 

Perplexing  question,  stirring  in  my  heart 

A  sense  of  guilt,  or  quenching  all  my  faith. 

This,  too,   I  kept  a  secret.     I  had  died 

Rather  than  breathe  the  question  in  her  cars 

Who  knelt  beside  me.     I  had  rather  died 


KatJirina.  \  i 

Than  add  a  sorrow  to  the  load  she  bore. 

Taught  to  be  true,  I  played  the  hypocrite 

In  truthfulness  to  her.     I  had  no  God, 

Nor  penitence,  nor  loyalty  nor  love  ; 

For  any  being  higher  than  herself. 

Jealous  of  all*  to  whom  she  gave  her  hand, 

I  clung  to  her  with  fond  idolatry. 

I  sat  with  her  ;    where'er  she  walked,  I  walked  ; 

I  kissed  away  her  tears  ;    I  strove  to  fill, 

With  strange  precocity  of  manly  pride 

And  more  than  boyish  tenderness,  the  void 

Which  death  had  made. 

I  could  not  fail  to  see 

That  ruth  for  me  and  sorrow  for  her  loss — 
Twin  leeches  at  her  heart — were  drinking  blood 
That,  from  her  pallid  features,  day  by  day 
Sank  slowly  down,  to  feed  the  cruel  draught. 
Nay,  more  than  this  I  saw,  and  sadly  worse. 
Oft  when  I  watched  her  and  she  knew  it  not, 
I  marked  a  quivering  horror  sweep  her  face — • 
A    strange,    quick    thrill    of   pain — that    brought    her 

hand 

With  sudden  pressure  to  her  heart,  and  forced 
To  her  white  lips  a  swiftly  whispered  prayer. 
I  fancied  that  I  read  the  mystery  ; 
But  it  was  deeper  and  more  terrible 


1 2  KatJirina. 

Than  I  conjectured.     Not  till  darker  years 
Came  the  solution. 

Still,  we  had  some  days 
Of  pleasure.     Sorrow  cannot  always  brood 
Over  the  shivering  forms  that  drink  her* warmth, 
But  springs  to  meet  the  morning  light,  and  soars 
Into  the  empyrean,  to  forget 
For  one  sweet  hour  the  ring  of  greedy  mouths 
That  surely  wait,  and  cry  for  her  return. 
My  mother's  hand  in  mine,  or  mine  in  hers, 
We  often  left  the  village  far  behind, 
And  walked  the  meadow-paths  to  gather  flowers, 
And  watch  the  plowman  as  he  turned  the  tilth, 
Or  tossed  his  burnished  share  into  the  sun 
At  the  long  furrow's  end,  the  while  we  marked 
The  tipsy  bobolink,  struggling  with  the  chain 
Of  tinkling  music  that  perplexed  his  wings, 
And  listened  to  the  yellow-breasted  lark's 
Sweet  whistle  from  the  grass. 

Glad  in  my  joy, 

i 

My  mother  smiled  amid  these  scenes  and  sounds, 
And  wandered  on  with  gentle  step  and  slow, 
While  I,  in  boyish  frolic,  ran  before, 
Chasing  the  butterflies,  or  in  her  path 
Tossing  the  gaudy  gold  of  buttercups, 


KatJirina.  1 3 

Till  sometimes,  ere  we  knew,  we  stood  entranced 
Upon  the  river's  marge. 

Ever  the  spell 

Of  lapsing  water  tamed  my  playful  mood, 
And  I  reclined  in  silent  happiness 
At  the  tired  feet  that  rested  in  the  shade. 
There  through  the  long,  bright  mornings  we  remained, 
Watching  the  noisy  ferry-boat  that  plied 
Like  a  slow  shuttle  through  the  sunny  warp 
Of  threaded  silver  from  a  thousand  brooks, 
That  took  new  beauty  as  it  wound  away ; 
Or  gazing  where  at  Holyoke's  verdant  base — 
Like  a  slim  hound,  stretched  at  his  master's  feet — 
Lay  the  long,  lazy  hamlet,  Hockanum  ; 
Or,  upward  turning,  traced  the  line  that  climbed 
O'er  splintered  rock  and  clustered  foliage 
To  the  bare  mountain-top  ;    then  followed  down 
The  scars  of  fire  and  storm,  or  paths  of  gloom 
That  marked  the  curtained  gorges,  till,  at  last, 
Caught  by  a  wisp  of  white,  belated  mist, 
Our  vision  rose  to  trace  its  airy  flight 
Beyond  the  height,  into  the  distant  blue. 

One  morning,  while  we  rested  there,  she  told 

Of  a  dear  friend  upon  the  other  side — 

A  lady  who  had  loved  her — whom  she  loved — 


14  Kathrina. 

And  then  she  promised  to  my  eager  wish 
That  soon,  across  the  stream  I  longed  to  pass, 
I  should  go  with  her  to  the  lady's  home. 

The  wishedfor  day  came  slowly — came  at  last — 
My  birthday  morning — rounding  to  their  close 
The  fourteen  summers  of  my  boyhood's  life. 
The  early  mists  were  clinging  to  the  side 
Of  the  dark  mountain  as  we  left  the  town, 
Though  all  the  roadside  fields  were  quick  with  toil 
In  rhythmic  motion  through  the  dewy  grass 
The  mowers  swept,  and  on  the  fragrant  air 
Was  borne  from  far  the  soft,  metallic  clash 
Of  stones  upon  the  steel. 

This  was  the  day 

"  So  memorably  wonderful  and  sweet 
Its  power  of  inspiration  lingers  still, — 
So  full  of  her  dear  presence,  so  divine 
With  the  melodious  breathing  of  her  words, 
And  the  warm  radiance  of  her  loving  smile, 
That  tears  fall  readily  as  April  rain 
At  its  recall."     And  with  this  day  there  came 
The  revelation  and  the  genesis 
Of  a  new  life.     In  intellect  and  heart 
I  ceased  to  be  a  child,  and  grew  a  man. 
By  one  long  leap  I  passed  the  hidden  bound 


Kathrina.  1 5 

That  circumscribed  my  boyhood,  and  thenceforth 
Abjured  all  childish  pleasure,  and  took  on 
The  purpose  and  the  burden  of  my  life. 

We  crossed  the  river — I,  as  in  a  dream  ; 

And  when  I  stood  upon  the  eastern  shore, 

In  the  full  presence  of  the  mountain  pile, 

Strange  tides  of  feeling  thrilled  me,  and  I  wept — 

Wept,  though  I  knew  not  why.     I  could  have  knelt 

On  the  white  sand,  and  prayed.     Within  my  soul 

Prophetic  whispers  breathed  of  coming  power 

And  new  possessions.     Aspiration  swelled 

Like  a  pent  stream  within  a  narrow  chasm, 

That  finds  nor  vent  nor  overflow,  but  swirls 

And  surges  and  retreats,  until  it  floods 

The  springs  that  feed  it.     All  was  chaos  wild, — 

A  chaos  of  fresh  passion,  undefined, 

Deep  in  whose  vortices  of  mist  and  fire 

A  new  world  waited  blindly  for  its  birth. 

I  had  no  words  for  revelation  ; — none 

For  answer,  when  my  mother  pressed  my  hand, 

And  questioned  why  it  trembled.     I  looked  up 

With  tearful  eyes,  and  met  her  loving  smile, 

And  both  of  us  were  silent,  and  passed  on. 

We  reached  at  length  the  pleasant  cottage-home 
Where  dwelt  my  mother's  friend,  and,  at  the  gate, 


1 6  Kathrina. 

Found  her  with  warmest  welcome  waiting  us. 
She  kissed  my  mother's  cheek,  and  then  kissed  mine, 
Which  shrank,  and  mantled  with  a  new-born  shame. 
They  crossed  the  threshold  :    I  remained  without. 
Surprised — half-angry — with  the  burning  blush 
That  still  o'erwhclmed  my  face. 

I  looked  around 

For  something  to  divert  my  vexing  thoughts, 
And  saw  intently  gazing  in  my  eyes, 
From  his  long  tether  in  the  grass,  a  lamb — 
A  lusty,  downy,  handsome,  household  pet. 
There  was  a  scarlet  ribbon  on  his  neck 
Which  held  a  silver  bell,  whose  note  I  heard 
First  when  his  eye  met  mine  ;  for  then  he  sprang 
To  greet  me  with  a  joyous  bleat,  and  fell, 
Thrown  by  the  cord  that  held  him.     Pitying  him, 
I  loosed  his  cruel  leashing,  with  intent, 
After  a  half-hour's  frolic,  to  return 
And  fasten  as  I  found  him  ;  but  my  hand, 
Too  careless  of  its  charge,  slipped  from  its  hold 
With  the  first  bound  he  made  ;  and  with  a  leap 
He  cleared  the  garden  wall,  and  flew  away. 

Affrighted  at  my  deed  and  its  mischance, 
I  paused  a  moment — then  with  ready  feet, 
And  first  and  final  impulse,  I  pursued. 


Kathrina.  1 7 

He  held  the  pathway  to  the  mountain  woods, 

The  tinkle  of  his  bell  already  faint 

In  the  long  distance  he  had  placed  between 

Himself  and  his  pursuer.     On  and  on, 

Climbing  the  mountain  path,  he  sped  away, 

1  following  swiftly,  never  losing  sight 

Of  the  bright  scarlet  streaming  from  his  neck, 

Or  hearing  of  the  tinkle  of  his  bell, 

Till,  wearied  both,  and  panting  up  the  steep, 

Our  progress  slackened  to  a  walk. 

At  length 

He  paused  and  looked  at  me,  and  waited  till 
My  foot  had  touched  the  cord  he  dragged,  and  then 
Bounded  away,  scaling  the  shclvy  cliffs 
That  bolder  rose  along  the  narrow  path. 
He  had  no  choice  but  mount.     I  pressed  him  close, 
And  rocks  and  chasms  were  thick  on  either  side  ; 
So,  pausing  oft,  but  ever  leaping  on 
Before  my  hand  could  reach  him,  he  advanced. 
Not  once  in  all  the  passage  had  I  paused 
To  look  below,  nor  had  I  thought  of  her 
Whom  I  had  left.     Absorbed  in  the  pursuit 
1  pressed  it  recklessly,  until  I  grasped 
My  fleecy  prisoner,  wound  and  tied  his  cord 
Around  my  wrist,  and  both  of  us  sank  down 
Upon  the  mountain  summit. 


1 8  Kathrina,  » 

In  a  swoon 

Of  breathless  weariness  how  long  I  lay 
I  could  not  know;  but  consciousness  at  last 
Came  by  my  brute  companion,  who,  alert 
Among  the  scanty  browse,  tugged  at  my  wrist, 
And  brought  me  startled  to  my  feet.     I  saw 
In  one  swift  sweep  of  vision  where  I  stood, — 
In  presence  of  what  beauty  of  the  earth, 
What  glory  of  the  sky,  what  majesty 
Of  lofty  loneliness.     I  drew  the  lamb — 
The  dear,  dumb  creature — gently  to  my  side, 
And  led  him  out  upon  the  beetling  cliff 
That  fronts  the  plaidcd  meadows,  and  knelt  down. 

When  once  the  shrinking,  dizzy  spell  was  gone, 

I  saw  below  me,  like  a  jewelled  cup, 

The  valley  hollowed  to  its  heaven-kissed  lip — 

The  serrate  green  against  the  serrate  blue — 

Brimming  with  beauty's  essence  ;  palpitant 

With  a  divine  elixir — lucent  floods 

Poured  from  the  golden  chalice  of  the  sun, 

At  which  my  spirit  drank  with  conscious  growth, 

And  drank  again  with  still  expanding  scope 

Of  comprehension  and  of  faculty. 

I  felt  the  bud  of  being  in  me  burst 
With  full,  unfolding  petals  to  a  rose, 


Katkrina.  ig 

And  fragrant  breath  that  flooded  all  the  scene. 
By  sudden  insight  of  myself  I  knew 
That  I  was  greater  than  the  scene, — that  deep 
Within  my  nature  was  a  wondrous  world, 
Broader  than  that  I  gazed  on,  and  informed 
With  a  diviner  beauty, — that  the  things 
I  saw  were  but  the  types  of  those  I  held, 
And  that  above  them  both,  High  Priest  and  King, 
I  stood  supreme,  to  choose  and  to  combine, 
And  build  from  that  within  me  and  without 
New  forms  of  life,  with  meaning  of  my  own. 
And  there  alone,  upon  the  mountain-top, 
Kneeling  beside  the  lamb,  I  bowed  my  head 
Beneath  the  chrismal  light,  and  felt  my  soul 
Baptized  and  set  apart  to  poetry. 

The  spell  of  inspiration  lingered  not ; 

But  ere  it  passed,  I  knew  my  destiny — 

The  passion  and  the  portion  of  my  life  : 

Though,  with  the  new-born  consciousness  of  power 

And  organizing  and  creative  skill, 

There  came  a  sense  of  poverty — a  sense 

Of  power  untrained,  of  skill  without  resource, 

Of  ignorance  of  Nature  and  her  laws 

And  language  and  the  learning  of  the  schools. 

I  could  not  rise  upon  my  callow  wings, 

But  felt  that  I  must  wait  until  the  years 


2O  Kathrina. 

Should  give  them  plumage,  and  the  skill  for  flight 
Be  won  by  trial. 

Then  before  me  rose 

The  long,  long  years  of  study,  interposed 
Between  me  and  the  goal  that  shone  afar  ; 
But  with  them  rose  the  courage  to  surmount, 
And  I  was  girt  for  toil. 

Then,   for  the  first, 

My  eye  and  spirit  that  had  drunk  the  whole 
Wide  vision,  grew  discriminate,  and  traced 
The  crystal  river  pouring  from  the  North 
Its  twinkling  tide,  and  winding  down  the  vale, 
Till,  doubling  in  a  serpent  coil,  it  paused 
Before  the  chasm  that  parts  the  frontal  spurs 
Of  Tom  and  Holyoke  ;    then  in  wreathing  light 
Sped  the  swart  rocks,  and  sought  the  misty  South. 
Across  the  meadows — carpet  for  the  gods, 
Woven  of  ripening  rye  and  greening  maize 
And  rosy  clover-blooms,  and  spotted  o'er 
With  the  black  shadows  of  the  feathery  elms — 
Northampton  rose,  half  hidden  in  her  trees, 
Lifted  above  the  level  of  the  fields, 
And  noiseless  as  a  picture. 

At  my  feet 
The  ferry-boat,  diminished  to  a  toy, 


KatJirina,  2 1 

With  automatic  diligence  conveyed 

Its  puppet  passengers  between  the  shores 

That  hemmed  its  enterprise  ;    and  one  low  barge, 

With  white,  square  sail,  bore  northward  languidly 

The  slow  and  scanty  commerce  of  the  stream. 

Eastward,  upon  another  fertile  stretch 
Of  meadow-sward  and  tilth,  embowered  in  elms, 
Lay  the  twin  streets,  and  sprang  the  single  spire 
Of  Hadley,  where  the  hunted  regicides 
Securely  lived  of  old,  and  strangely  died  ; 
And  eastward  still,  upon  the  last  green  step 
From  which  the  Angel  of  the  Morning  Light 
Leaps  to  the  meadow- lands,  fair  Amherst  sat, 
Capped  by  her  many-windowed  colleges ; 
While  from  his  outpost  in  the  rising  North, 
Bald  with  the  storms  and  ruddy  with  the  suns 
Of  the  long  eons,  stood  old  Sugarloaf, 
Gazing  with  changeless  brow  upon  a  scene, 
Changing  to  fairer  beauty  evermore. 

Save  of  the  river  and  my  pleasant  home, 
I  knew  not  then  the  names  and  history 
Borne  by  these  visions  ;  but  upon  my  brain 
Their  forms  were  graved  in  lines  indelible 
As,  on  the  rocks  beneath  my  feet,  the  prints 
Of  life  in  its  first  motion.     Later  years 


22  K at  J irin  a. 

Renewed  the  picture,  and  its  outlines  filled 

With  fair  associations, — wrought  the  past 

And  living  present  into  fadeless  wreaths 

That  crowned  each  mound  and  mount,  and  to\\n  anJ 

tower, 

The  king  of  teeming  memories.     Nor  could 
I  guess  with  faintest  foresight  of  the  life 
Which,  in  the  years  before  me,  I  should  weave 
Of  mingled  threads  of  pleasure  and  of  pain 
Into  these  scenes,  until  not  one  of  all 
Could  meet  my  eye,  or  touch  my  memory, 
Without  recalling  an  experience 
That  drank  the  sweetest  ichor  of  my  veins 
Or  crowded  them  with  joy. 

At  length  I  turned 

From  the  wide  survey,  and  with  pleased  surprise 
Detected,  nestling  at  the  mountain's  foot, 
The  cottage  I  had  left ;  and,  on  the  lawn, 
Two  forms  of  life  that  flitted  to  and  fro. 
I  knew  that  they  had  missed  me  ;  so  I  sought 
The  passage  I  had  climbed,  and,  with  the  lamb 
Still  fastened  to  my  wrist,  I  hasted  down. 

Full  of  the  marvels  of  the  hour  I  sped, 

Leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  or  flying  swift 

The  smoother  slopes,  with  arms  half  wings,  and  feet 


KatJirina. 

That  only  guarded  the  descent,  the  while 

My  captive  led  me  captive  at  his  will. 

So  tense  the  strain  of  sinew,  so  intense 

The  mood  and  motion,  that  before  I  guessed, 

The  headlong  flight  was  finished,  and  I  walked, 

Jaded  and  reeking,  in  the  level  path 

That  led  the  lambkin  home. 

My  mother  saw, 

And  ran  to  meet  me  :   then  for  long,  still  hours, 
Couched  in  a  dim,  cool  room,  I  lay  and  slept. 
When  I  awoke,  I  found  her  at  my  side, 
Fanning  my  face,  and  ready  with  her  smile 
And  soothing  words  to  greet  me.     Then  I  told, 
With  youthful  volubility  and  wild 
Extravagance  of  figure  and  of  phrase, 
The  morning's  exploit. 

First  she  questioned  me 

But,  as  I  wrought  each  scene  and  circumstance 
Into  consistent  form,  she  drank  my  words 
In  eager  silence  ;  and  within  her  eyes 
I   snw  the  glow  of  pride  which  gravity 
And  show  of  deep  concern  could  not  disguise,, 
I  read  her  bosom  better  than  she  knew. 
I  saw  that  she  had  made  discovery 
Of  something  unsuspected  in  her  child, 


24  Kathrina. 

And  that,  by  one  I  loved,  and  she  the  best, 
The  fire  that  burned  within  me  and  the  power 
That  morning  called  to  life,  were  recognized. 

When  I  had  told  my  story,  and  had  read 

With  kindling  pride  my  praises  in  her  eyes, 

She  placed  her  soft  hand  on  my  brow,  and  said  : 

"  My  Paul  has  climbed  the  noblest  mountain  height 

In  all  his  little  world,  and  gazed  on  scenes 

As  beautiful  as  rest  beneath  the  sun. 

I  trust  he  will  remember  all  his  life 

That  to  his  best  achievement,  and  the  spot 

Nearest  to  heaven  his  youthful  feet  have  trod, 

He  has  been  guided  by  a  guileless  lamb. 

It  is  an  omen  which  his  mother's  heart 

Will  treasure  with  her  jewels." 

When  the  sun 

Of  the  long  summer  day  hung  but  an  hour 
Above  his  setting,  and  the  cool  West  Wind 
Bore  from  the  purpling  hills  his  bcnison, 
The  farewell  courtesies  of  love  were  given, 
And  we  set  forth  for  home. 

Not  far  we  fared— » 

The  river  left  behind — when,  looking  back, 
I  saw  the  mountain  in  the  searching  light 


Kathrina.  25 

Of  the  low  sun.     Surcharged  with  youthful  pride 

In  my  adventure,  I  can  ne'er  forget 

The  disappointment  and  chagrin  which  fell 

Upon  me  ;    for  a  change  iad  passed.     The  steep 

Which  in  the  morning  sprang  to  kiss  the  sun, 

Had  left  the  scene  ;    and  in  its  place  I  saw 

A  shrunken  pile,  whose  paths  my  steps  had  climbed. 

Whose  proudest  height  my  humble  feet  had  trod. 

Its  grand  impossibilities  and  all 

Its  store  of  marvels  and  of  mysteries 

Were  flown  away,  and  would  not  be  recalled. 

The  mountain's  might  had  entered  into  me  ; 

And,  from  that  fruitful  hour,  whatever  scene 

Nature  revealed  to  me,  she  never  caught 

My  spirit  humbled  by  surprise.     My  thought 

Built  higher  mountains  than  I  ever  found  ; 

Poured  wilder  cataracts  than  I  ever  saw  ; 

Drove  grander  storms  than  ever  swept  the  sky  ; 

Pushed  into  loftier  heavens  and  lower  hells 

Than  the  abysmal  reach  of  light  and  dark  ; 

And  entertained  me  with  diviner  feasts 

Than  ever  met  the  appetite  of  sense, 

And  poured  me  wine  of  choicer  vintages 

Than  fire  the  hearts  of  kings. 

The  frolic- flame 
Which  in  the  morning  kindled  in  my  veins 


26  Kathrina. 

Had  died  away  ;    and  at  my  mother's  side 

I  walked  in  quiet  mood,  and  gravely  spoke 

Of  the  great  future.     With  a  tender  quest 

My  mother  probed  my  secret  wish,  and  heard, 

With  silence  new  and  strange  respectfulness, 

The  revelation  of  my  plans.     I  felt 

In  her  benign  attention  to  my  words  ; 

In  her  suggestions,  clothed  with  gracious  phrase 

To  win  my  judgment ;    and  in  all  those  shades 

Of  mien  and  manner  which  a  mother's  love 

Inspires  so  quickly  when  the  form  it  nursed 

Becomes  a  staff  in  its  caressing  hand, 

She  had  made  space  for  me,  and  placed  her  life 

In  new  relations  to  my  own.     I  knew 

That  she  who  through  my  span  of  tender  years 

Had  counselled  me,  had  given  me  privilege 

Within  her  councils  ;    and  the  moment  came 

I  learned  that  in  the  converse  of  that  hour, 

The  appetency  of  maternity 

For  manhood  in  its  offspring,  had  laid  hold 

Of  the  fresh  growth  in  me,  and  feasted  well 

Its  gentle  passion. 

Ere  we  reached  our  home, 
The  plans  for  study  were  matured,  and  I, 
Who,  with  an  aptitude  beyond  my  years, 
Had  gathered  learning's  humbler  rudiments 


Kathrina.  27 

From  her  to  whom  I  owed  my  earliest  words, 

Was,  when  another  day  should  rise,  to  pass 

To  rougher  teaching,  and  society 

Of  the  rude  youth  whose  wild  and  boisterous  ways 

Had  scared  my  childish  life. 

I  nerved  my  heart 

To  meet  the  change  ;    and  all  the  troubled  night 
I  tossed  upon  my  pillow,  filled  with  fears, 
Or  fired  with  hot  ambitions  ;    shrinking  oft 
With  girlish  sensitiveness  from  the  lot 
My  manly  heart  had  chosen  ;    rising  oft 
Above  my  cowardice,  well  panoplied 
By  fancy  to  achieve  great  victories 
O'er  those  whose  fellows  I  should  be. 

At  last, 

The  dawn  looked  in  upon  me,  and  I  rose 
To  meet  its  golden  coming,  and  the  life 
Of  golden  promise  whose  wide-open  doors 
Waited  my  feet. 

The  lingering  morning  hours 
Seemed  days  of  painful  waiting,  as  they  fell 
In  slowly  filling  numbers  from  the  tower 
Of  the  old  village  church  ;    but  when,  at  length, 
My  eager  feet  had  touched  the  street,  and  turned 


28  Katlirina. 

To  climb  the  goodly  eminence  where  he 

In  whose  profound  and  stately  pages  live 

His  country's  annals,  ruled  his  youthful  realm, 

My  heart  grew  stern  and  strong  ;    and  nevermore 

Did  doubt  of  excellence  and  mastery 

Drag  down  my  soaring  courage,  or  disturb 

My  purposes  and  plans. 

What  boots  it  here 
To  tell  with  careful  chronicle  the  life 
Of  my  novitiate  ?     Up  the  graded  months 
My  feet  rose  slowly,  but  with  steady  step, 
To  tall  and  stalwart  manliness  of  frame, 
And  ever  rising  and  expanding  reach 
Of  intellection  and  the  power  to  call 
Forth  from  the  pregnant  nothingness  of  words 
The  sphered  creations  of  my  chosen  art. 
What  boots  it  to  recount  my  victories 
Over  my  fellows,  or  to  tell  how  all, 
Contemptuous  at  first,  became  at  length 
Confessed  inferiors  in  every  strife 
When  brain  or  brawn  contended  ?     Victories 
Were  won  too  easily  to  bring  me  pride, 
And  only  bred  contempt  of  the  low  pitch 
And  lower  purpose  of  the  power  which  strove 
So  feebly  and  so  clumsily.     When  won, 
They  fed  my  mother's  passion,  and  she  praised ; 


KatJirina.  29 

And  her  delight  was  all  the  boon  they  brought. 
My  fierce  ambition,  ever  reaching  up 
To  higher  fields  and  nobler  combatants, 
Trampled  its  triumphs  underneath  its  feet ; 
And  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  pitied  her 
To  whose  deep  hunger  of  maternal  pride 
They  bore  ambrosial  ministry. 

In  all 

These  years  of  doing  and  development, 
My  heart  was  haunted  by  a  bitter  pain. 
In  every  scene  of  pleasure,  every  hour 
That  lacked  employment,  every  moment's  lull 
Of  toil  or  study,  its  familiar  hand 
Was  raised  aloft,  to  smite  me  with  its  pang. 
From  month  to  month,  from  year  to  year,  I  saw 
That  she  who  bore  me,  and  to  whom  I  owed 
The  meek  and  loyal  reverence  of  a  child, 
Was  changing  places  with  me,  and  that  she — • 
Dependent,  trustful  and  subordinate— 
Deferred  to  me  in  all  things,  and  in  all 
Gave  me  the  parent's  place  and  took  the  child's. 
She  waited  for  my  coming  like  a  child  ; 
She  ran  to  meet  and  greet  me  like  a  child  ; 
She  leaned  on  me  for  guidance  and  defence, 
And  lived  in  me,  and  by  me,  like  a  child. 
If  I  were  absent  long  beyond  my  wont, 


3d  Kathrina. 

She  yielded  to  distresses  and  to  tears  ; 
And  when  I  came,  she  flew  into  my  arms 
With  childish  impulse  of  delight,  or  chid 
With  weak  complainings  my  delay. 

By  these, 

And  by  a  thousand  other  childish  ways, 
I  knew  disease  was  busy  with  her  life, 
Working  distempers  in  her  heart  and  brain, 
And  driving  her  for  succor  to  my  strength. 
The  change  was  great  in  her,  though  slowly  wrought, — 
Though  wrought  so  slowly  that  my  thought  and  life 
Had  been  adjusted  to  it,  but  for  this  : — 
One  dismal  night,  a  trivial  accident 
Had  kept  me  from  my  home  beyond  the  hour 
At  which  my  promise  stood  for  my  return. 
Arriving  at  the  garden  gate,  I  paused 
To  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  accustomed  light, 
Through  the  cold  mist  that  wrapped  me,  but  in  vain. 
Only  one  window  glimmered  through  the  gloom, 
Through  whose  uncurtained  panes  I  dimly  saw 
My  mother  in  her  chamber.      She  was  clad 
In  the  white  robe  of  rest ;   but  to  and  fro 
She   crossed  the   light,  sometimes  with   hands  pressed 

close 

Upon  her  brow,  sometimes  raised  up  toward  heaven, 
As  if  in  deprecation  or  despair ; 


Kathrina.  3 1 

And  through  the  strident  soughing  of  the  elm 
I  heard  her  voice,  still  musical  in  woe, 
Wailing  and  calling. 

With  a  noiseless  step 

I  reached  the  door,  and,  with  a  noiseless  key, 
Turned  back  the  bolt,  and  stood  within.     I  could 
Have  called  her  to  my  arms,  and  quelled  her  fears 
By  one  dear  word,  and  yet,  I  spoke  it  not. 
I  longed  to  learn  her  secret,  and  to  know 
In  what  recess  of  history  or  heart 
It  hid,  and  wrought  her  awful  malady. 

Not  long  I  waited,  when  I  heard  her  voice 
Wail  out  again  in  wild,  beseeching  prayer, — 
Her  voice  so  sweet  and  soulful,  that  it  seemed 
As  if  a  listening  fiend  could  not  refuse 
Such  help  as  in  him  lay,  although  her  tongue 
Should  falter  to  articulate  her  pain. 

I  heard  her  voice — O  God !    I  heard  her  words ! 

Not  bolts  of  burning  from  the  vengeful  sky 

Had  scathed  or  stunned  me  more.     I  shook  like  one 

Powerless  within  the  toils  of  some  great  sin, 

Or  some  o'ermastcring  passion  ;    or  like  one 

Whose  veins  turn  ice  at  onset  of  the  plague. 

"O  God,"  she  said,  "my  Father  and  my  Friend! 


32  Kathriua. 

Spare  him  to  me,  and  save  me  from  myself! 
O !    if  thou  help  me  not — if  thou  forsake — 
This  hand  which  thou  hast  made,  will  take  the  life 
Thou  mad'st  the  hand  to  feed.     I  cling  to  him, 
My  son, — my  boy.     If  danger  come  to  him, 
No  one  is  left  to  save  me  from  this  crime. 
Thou  knowest,  O  !  my  God,  how  I  have  striven 
To  quench  the  awful  impulse;    how,  in  vain, 
My  prayers  have  gone  before  thec,  for  release 
From  the  foul  demon  who  would  drive  my  soul 
To  crime  that  leaves  no  space  for  penitence'. 
O !    Father  !    Father !    Hear  me  when  I  call  ! 
Hast  thou  not  made  me  ?     Am  I  not  thy  child  ? 
Why,  why  this  mad,  mysterious  desire 
To  follow  him  I  loved,  by  the  dark  door 
Through  which  he  forced  his  passage  to  the  realm 
That  death  throws  wide  to  all?     O  why  must  I, 
A  poor,  weak  woman — 

I  could  hear  no  more, 

Hut  dropped  my  dripping  cloak,  and,  with  a  voice. 
Toned  to  its  tcnderest  cadence,   I  pronounced 
The  sweet  word,  "  mother  !  " 

Her  excess  of  joy 

Burst  in  a  cry,  and  in  a  moment's  space 
I  sat  within  her  room,  and  she,  my  child, 


Kathrina.  33 

Was  sobbing  in  my  arms.     I  spoke  no  word, 

But  sat  distracted  with  my  tenderness 

For  her  who  threw  herself  upon  my  heart 

In  perfect  trust,  and  bitter  thoughts  of  Him 

Whose  succor,  though  importunately  sought 

In  piteous  pleadings  by  a  gentle  saint, 

Was  grudgingly  withheld.     Her  closing  words  : 

"  O  why  must  I,  a  poor,  weak  woman — "  rang 

Through  every  chamber  of  my  tortured  soul, 

And  called  to  conclave  and  rebellion  all 

The  black-browed  passions  thitherto  restrained. 

Ay,  why  should  she,  who  only  sought  for  God, 

Be  given  to  a  devil  ?     Why  should  she 

Who  begged  for  bread  be  answered  with  a  stone  ? 

Ay,  why  should  she  whose  soul  recoiled  from  sin 

As  from  a  fiend,  find  in  her  heart  a  fiend 

To  urge  the  sin  she  hated  ? — questions  all 

The  fiends  within  me  answered  as  they  would. 

O  God !    O  Father  !     How  I  hated  thee  ! 

Nay,  how  within  my  angry  soul  I  dared 

To  curse  thy  sacred  name  ! 

Then  other  thoughts-^. 
Thoughts  of  myself  and  of  my  destiny — 
Succeeded.     Who  and  what  was  I  ?     A  youth, 
Poomed  by  hereditary  taint  to  crime, 


34  Kathrina. 

A  youth  whose  every  artery  and  vein 

Was  doubly  charged  with  suicidal  blood. 

When  the  full  consciousness  of  what  I  was 

Possessed  my  thought,  and  I  gazed  down  the  abyss 

God  had  prepared  fur  me,  I   shrank  aghast  ; 

And  there  in  silence,  with  an  awful  oath 

I  dare  not  write,  I  swore  my  will  was  mine, 

And  mine  my  hand  ;    and  that,  though  all  the  fiends 

That  cumber  hell  and  overrun  the  earth 

Should  spur  the  deadly  impulse  of  my  blood, 

And  heaven  withhold  the  aid  I  would  not  ask  ; 

Though  woes  unnumbered  should  beset  my  life, 

And  reason  fall,  and  uttermost  despair 

Hold  me  a  hopeless  prisoner  in  its  glooms, 

I  would  resist  and  conquer,  and  live  out 

My  complement  of  years.     My  bosom  burned 

With  fierce  defiance,  and  the  angry  blood 

Leaped  from  my  heart,  and  boomed  within  my  brain 

With  throbs  that  stunned  me,  though  each  fiery  thrill 

Was  charged  with  tenderness  for  her  whose  head 

,Was  pillowed  on  its  riot. 

Long  I  sat — 

How  long,  I  know  not — but  at  last  the  sad, 
Hysteric  sobs  and  suspirations  ceased, 
Or  only  at  wide  intervals  recurred  ; 
And  then  I  rose,  and  to  her  waiting  bed 


Kathrina.  35 

Led  my  doomed  mother.     With  a  cheerful  voice — 
Cheerful  as  I  could  summon — and  a  kiss, 
I  bade  her  a  good  night  and  pleasant  dreams  ; 
And  then,  across  the  hall,  I  sought  my  room 
Where  neither  sleep  nor  dream  awaited  me, 
But  only  blasphemous,  black  thoughts,  and  strife 
With  God  a/id  Destiny. 

I  saw  it  all : 

The  lamp  that  from  my  mother's  window  beamed } 
Illumined  other  nights  and  other  storms, 
And  by  its  lurid  light  revealed  to  me 
The  secrets  of  a  life.     Her  sudden  pangs, 
Her  brooding  woes,  her  terrors  when  alone, 
The  strange  surrender  of  her  will  to  mine, 
Her  hunger  for  my  presence,  and  her  fear 
That  by  some  slip  of  fortune  she  should  lose 
Her  hold  on  me,  were  followed  to  their  home — 
To  her  poor  heart,  that  fluttered  every  hour 
With  conscious  presence  of  an  enemy 
That  would  not  be  expelled,  and  strove  to  spill 
The  life  it  spoiled. 

From  that  eventful  night 
She  was  not  left  alone.     I  called  a  friend, 
A  cheerful  lady,  whose  companionship 
Was  music,  medicine  and  rest ;  and  she, 


3  <5  KatJirina. 

Wanting  a  home,  and  with  a  ready  wit 
Learning  my  mother's  need  and  my  desire, 
Assumed  the  place  of  matron  in  the  house  ; 
And,  in  return  for  what  we  gave  to  her, 
Gave  us  herself. 

My  mother's  confidence, 
By  her  self-confidence,  she  quickly  won  ; 
And  thus,  though  sadly  burdened  at  my  heart, 
I  found  one  burden  lifted  from  my  hands. 
More  liberty  of  movement  and  of  toil 
I  needed  ;  for  the  time  was  drawing  near 
When  I  should  turn  my  feet  toward  other  halls, 
To  seek  maturer  study,  and  complete 
The  work  of  culture  faithfully  begun. 

Into  my  mother's  ear  I  breathed  my  plans 
With  careful  words.     The  university 
Was  but  a  short  remove — a  morning's  walk — 
Away  from  her  ;  and  ever  at  her  wish — 
Nay,  always  when  I  could — I  would  return  ; 
And  separation  would  but  sweeten  love, 
And  joy  of  meeting  recompense  the  pain 
Of  parting  and  of  absence. 

She  was  calm 
And  leaning  in  her  thought  upon  her  friend. 


Kathrina.  37 

Gave  her  consent.     So,  on  a  summer  day, 
I  kissed  her  faded  cheek,  and  turned  from  home 
To  seek  the  college  halls  that  I  had  seen 
From  boyhood's  mount  of  vision. 

Of  the  years 

Passed  there  in  study — of  the  rivalries, 
The  long,  stern  struggles  for  pre-eminence, 
The  triumphs  hardly  won,  but  won  at  last 
Beyond  all  cavil,  matters  not  to  tell. 
It  was  my  grief  that  while  I  gained  and  grew, 
My  mother  languished  momently,  and  lost, — • 
A  grief  that  turned  to  poison  in  my  blood. 
The  college  prayers  were  mummeries  to  me, 
And  with  disdainful  passion  I  repelled 
All  Christian  questionings  of  heart  and  life, 
By  old  and  young. 

I  stood,   I  moved  alone. 
I  sought  no  favors,  took  no  courtesies 
With  grateful  grace,  and  nursed  my  haughty  pride. 
The  men  who  kneeled  and  gloomed,  and  prayed    ant; 

sang, 

Seemed  but  a  brood  of  dullards,  whom  contempt 
Would  honor  overmuch.     No  tender  spot 
Was  left  within  my  indurated  heart, 
Save  that  which  moved  with  ever-melting  ruth 


38  Kathrina. 

For  her  whose  breast  had  nursed  me,  and  whosi  love 
Had  given  my  life  the  only  happiness 
It  yet  had  known. 

With  her  I  kept  my  pledge 
With  more  than  faithful  punctuality. 
Few  weeks  passed  by  in  all  those  busy  years 
In  which  I  did  not  walk  the  way  between 
The  college  and  my  home,  and  bear  to  her 
Such  consolation  as  my  presence  gave. 
In  truth,  my  form  was  as  familiar  grown 
To  all  the  rustic  dwellers  on  the  road 
As  I  had  been  a  post-boy. 

Little  joy 

These  visits  won  for  me — little  beyond 
That  which  I  found  in  bearing  joy  to  her — 
For  every  year  marked  on  her  slender  framc^ 
And  on  her  checks,  and  on  her  failing  brain, 
Its  record  of  decadence.     I  could  see 
That  she  was  sinking  into  helplessness, 
And  that  too  soon  her  inoffensive  soul, 
With  all  its  sweet  affections,  would  go  down 
To  hopeless  wreck  and  darkness. 

From  her  friend 
I  learned  that  still  the  burden  of  her  prayer 


Kathrina.  39 

Was,  that  she  might  be  saved  from  one  great  sin — 
The  sin  of  self-destruction.     Every  hour 
This  one  petition  struggled  from  her  heart, 
To  reach  the  ear  of  heaven  ;  yet  never  help 
Came  down  in  answer  to  her  cry. 

The  Spring 

That  ushered  in  my  closing  college-year 
Came  up  the  valley  on  her  balmy  wings, 
And  Winter  fled  away,  and  left  no  trace, 
Save,  here  and  there  a  snowy  drift,  to  show 
Where  his  cold  feet  had  rested  in  their  flight. 
But  one  still  night,  within  the  span  of  sleep, 
A  shivering  winter  cloud  that  wandered  late 
Shook  to  the  frosty  ground  its  inch  of  rime. 
So,  when  the  morning  rose,  the  earth  was  white  ; 
And  shrubs  and  trees,  and  roofs  and  rocks  and  walls, 
Fulgent  with  downy  crystals,  made  a  world 
To  which  a  breath  were  ruin  ;    and  a  breath 
Wrecked  it  for  me,  and,  by  a  few  sad  words, 
Blotted  the  sunlit  splendor  from  my  sight. 

As  I  looked  out  upon   the  scene,  and  mused 
Of  her  to  whom  I  hoped  it  might  impart 
Some  healthy  touch  of  joy,  I  heard  the  beat 
Of  hoofs  upon  the  trackless  blank,  and  saw 
A  horseman  speeding-up  the  avenue. 


4O  Kathrina. 

I  raised  my  sash  (I  knew  he  came  for  me), 
And  faltered  forth  my  question.     From  his  breast 
He  drew  a  folded  slip  :    dismounting  then, 
He  stooped  and  pressed  the  missive  in  a  mass 
Of  clinging  snow,  and  tossed  it  to  my  hand. 
I  closed  the  window,  burst  the  frosty  seal, 
And  read  :    "  Your  mother  cannot  long  survive  : 
Come  home  to  her  to-day."     I  did  not  pause 
To  break  the  fast  of  night,  but  rushing  forth, 
I  followed  close  the  messenger's  return. 

It  was  a  morning,  such  as  comes  but  once 
In  all  the  Spring, — so  still  and  beautiful, 
So  full  of  promise,  so  exhilarant 
With  frost  and  fire,  in  earth  and  air,  that  life 
Had  been  a  brimming  joy  but  for  the  scene 
That  waited  for  my  eyes — the  scene  of  death — 
From  which  imagination  staggered  back, 
And  every  sensibility  recoiled. 

The  smoke  from  distant  sugar-camps  rolled  up 
Through  the  still  ether  in  columnar  coils- 
Blue  pillars  of  a  bluer  dome — and  all 
The  resonant  air  was  full  of  sounds  of  Spring. 
The  sheep  were  bleating  round  their  empty  ricks  ,° 
Horses  let  loose  were  calling  from  afar, 
And  winning  fierce  replies  ;    the  axeman's  blows 


Katlirina. 

Fell  nimbly  at  the  piles  which  wintry  woods 
Had  lent  to  summer  stores  ;    while  far  and  faint, 
The  rhythmic  ululations  of  the  hound 
On  a  fresh  trail,  upon  the  mountain's  side, 
Added  their  strange  wild  music  to  the  morn. 

The  beauty  and  the  music  caught  my  sense, 
But  woke  within  my  sick  and  sinking  heart 
No  motion  of  response.     I  walked  as  one 
Condemned  to  dungeon-glooms  might  walk 
Through  shouts  of  mirth  and  festal  pageantry, 
Hearing  and  seeing  all,  yet  over  all 
Hearing  the  clank  of  chains  and  clash  of  bars, 
And  seeing  but  the  reptiles  of  his  cell. 

How  I  arrived  at  home,  without  fatigue, 
Without  a  thought  of  effort — onward  borne 
By  one  absorbing  and  impelling  thought — • 
As  one  within  a  minute's  mete  may  slide, 
O'er  leagues  of  sunny  dreamland  in  a  dream, 
By  magic  or  by  miracle — I  found 
No  time  to  question. 

At  my  mother's  door 

I  stood  and  listened  :    soon  I  heard  my  name 
Pronounced  within  in  spiteful  whisperings. 
I  raised  the  latch,  and  met  her  burning  eyes. 


42  Kathrina. 

She  stared  a  wild,  mad  stare,  then  raised  herself, 
And  in  weak  fury  poured  upon  my  head 
The  vials  of  her  wrath.      I  stood  like  stone, 
Without  the  power  to  speak,  the  while  she  rained 
Her  maledictions  on  me,  and  in  words 
Fit  only  for  the  damned,  accused  my  life 
Of  crimes  my  language  could  not  name,  and  deeds 
Which  only  outcast  wretches  know. 

At  length, 

I  gained  my  tongue,  and  tried  to  take  her  hand  ; 
But  with  a  shriek  which  cut  me  like  a  knife 
She  shrank  from  me,  and  hid  her  quivering  face 
Within  her  pillow. 

Then   I   turned  ;iway, 

And  sought  the  room  where  oft  in  better  days 
We  both  had  knelt  together  at  nty   bed, 
And,  making  fast  my  door,   I  threw  myself 
Prone  on  the  precious  couch,  and  gave  to  grief 
My  strong  and  stormy  nature.     All  the  day 
With  bursts  of  passion  I  bewailed  my  loss, 
Or  lay  benumbed  in  feeling  and  in  thought, 
Testing  no  food,  and  shutting  out  my  soul 
From  all  approach  of  human  sympathy, 
Till  the  light  waned,  and  through  the  leafless  boughs 
Of  the  old  elm  I  caught  the  sheen  of  stars. 


Kathrina.  43 

Then  sleep  descended — such  a  sleep  as  comes 
To  uttermost  exhaustion, — sleep  with  dreams 
Wild  as  the  waking  fantasies  of  her 
Whose  screams  and  incoherent  words  gave  voice 
To  all  their  phantom  brood. 

At  length  I  woke. 

The  house  was  still  as  death  ;    and  yet  I  heard, 
Or  thought  I  heard,   the  touch  of  crafty  feet 
Upon  the  carpet,  creeping  by  my  door. 
It  passed  away,  away  ;    and  then  a  pause, 
Still  and  presagcful  as  the  breathless  calm 
On  which  the  storm-cloud  mounts  the  pallid  West, 
Succeeded.     I  could  hear  the  parlor-clock 
Counting  the  beaded  silence,  and  my  bed, 
Rustling  beneath  my  breathing  and  my  pulse, 
Was  sharply  crepitant,  and  gave  me  pain. 

An  hour  passed  by  (it  loitered  like  an  age), 

And  then  came  hurried  words  and  hasty  fall 

Of  footsteps  in  the  passage.     I  could  hear 

Screams,  sobs,  and  whispered  calls  and  closing  doors 

And  heavy  feet  that  jarred  my  bed,  and  shook 

The  windows  of  my  room.     I  did  not  stir  : 

I  dared  not  stir,  but  lay  in  deathly  dread, 

Waiting  the  sad  denouement.     Soon  it  came. 

A  man  approached  my  door,  and  tried  the  latch; 


44  Kathrina. 

Then  knocked,  and  called.     I  knew  the  kindly  voice 
Of  the  physician,  and  threw  back  the  bolt. 
Then  by  the  light  he  held  before  his  face 
I  read  the  fact  of  death. 

I   took  his  arm, 

And,  as  I  feebly  staggered  down  the  stairs, 
He  broke  to  me  with  lack  of  useless  words 
The  awful  truth.     .     .     .     The  old  familiar  talc  : 
She  counterfeited  sleep  :    the  nurses  both, 
Weary  with  over-watching  in  their  chairs, 
Under  the  cumbrous  stillness,  slept  indeed  ; 
And  when  she  knew  it,  she  escaped  ;    and  then 
She  did  the  deed  to  which  for  many  years 
She  had  been  predisposed.     Perhaps  I  knew 
The  nature  of  the  case  :    perhaps  I  knew 
My  father  went  that  way.     I  clutched  his  arm  : 
There  was  no  need  of  words. 

The  parlor  door 

Stood  open,  and  a  throng  of  silent  friends, 
Choking  with  tears,  gazed  on  a  silent  form 
Shrouded  in  snowy  linen.     They  made  way 
For  me  and  my  companion.     On  my  knees 
I  clasped  the  precious  clay,  and  pouring  forth 
My  pitymg  love  and  tenderness  for  her, 
\  gave  indignant  voice  to  my  complaint 


Katlirina,  4£ 

Against  the  Being  who,  to  all  her  prayers 
For  succor  and  security,  had  turned 
A  deaf,  dead  ear  and  a  repelling  hand. 

To  what  blaspheming  utterance  I  gave 

My  raving  passion,  may  the  God  I  cursed 

Forbid  my  shrinking  memory  to  recall ! 

I  now  remember  only  that  when  drawn 

By  strong,  determined  hands  away  from  her, 

The  room  was  vacant.     Every  pitying  friend 

Had  flown  my  presence  and  the  room,  to  find 

Release  of  sensibility  from  words 

That  roused  their  superstitious  souls  to  fear 

That  God  would  smite  me  through  the  blinding  smoke 

Of  my  great  torment. 

Silence,  for  the  restl 
It  was  a  dream  ;  and  only  as  a  dream 
Do  I  remember  it :  the  coffined  form, 
The  funeral — a  concourse  of  the  town — 
The  trembling  prayer  for  me,  the  choking  sobs, 
The  long  procession,  the  descending  clods, 
The  slow  return,  articulated  all 
With  wild,  mad  words  of  mine,  and  gentle  speech 
Of  those  who  sought  to  curb  or  comfort  me  — 
All  was  a  dream,  from  which  I  woke  at  length 
With  heart  as  dead  as  her's  who  slept.     The  heavens 


46  KatJirina. 

Were  brass  above  me,  and  the  breathing  world 

Was  void  and  meaningless.     When  told  to  pray, 

This  was  the  logic  of  my  heart's  reply  : 

If  God  be  Love,  not  such  is  He  to  me 

Nor  such  to  mine.     If  He  heard  not  the  voice 

Of  such  a  lovely  saint  as  she  I  mourned, 

Mine  would  but  rouse  His  vengeance. 

So  I  closed 

With  Reason's  hand  the  adamantine  doors 
Which  only  Faith  unlocks,  and  shut  my  soul 
Away  from  God,  the  warder  of  a  gang 
Of  passions  that  in  darkness  stormed  or  gloomed  ; 
And  with  each  other  fought,  or  on  themselves 
Gnawed  for  the  nourishment  which  I  denied. 


COMPLAINT. 

RIVER,  sparkling  river,  I  have  fault  to  find  with  thet 
River,  them  dost  never  give  a  word  of  peace  to  me  ! 
Dimpling  to  each  touch  of  sunshine,  wimpling  to  eacli 

air  that  blows, 
Thou  dost  make  no    sweet   replying  to  my  sighing  for 

repose. 

Flowers    of  mount  and  meadow,    I    have  fault   to  find 

with  you  ; 
So  the   breezes    cross  and  toss    you,  so  your  cups   are 

filled  with  dew, 
Matters  not  though  sighs  give  motion  to  the  ocean  of 

your  breath ; 
Matters  not    though    you    are    filling  with    the    chilling 

drops  of  death  ! 

Birds  of  song  and  beauty,  lo !     I  charge    you  all  with 

blame  : — 
Though  all  hapless  passions  thrill  and  fill  me,  you  are 

still  the  same. 


48  Kathrina. 

I  can   borrow  for  my  sorrow  nothing  that  avails 
From    your   lonely  note,  that   only  speaks   of  joy  thai 
never  fails. 


O!      indifference    of    Nature    to    the    fact    of    human 

pain  ! 
Every  grief  that  seeks  relief  entreats   it  at   her   hand 

in  vain  ; 
Not  a  bird  speaks  forth  its  passion,  not  a  river  seeks 

the  sea, 
Nor  a   flower    from   wreaths    of    Summer   breathes    in 

sympathy  with  me. 

O  !  the  rigid  rock  is  frigid,  though  its  bed  be  sum 
mer  mould, 

And  the  diamond  glitters  ever  in  the  grasp  of  change 
less  gold  ; 

And  the  laws  that  bring  the  seasons  swing  their  cycles 
as  they  must, 

Though  the  ample  road  they  trample  blind  the  eyes 
with  human  dust. 

Moons  will  wax  in  argent  glory,  though   man  wane  to 

hopeless  gloom  ; 
Stars  will  sparkle  in  their  splendor,  though   he  darkle 

to  his  doom  ; 


Kathrina.  49 

Winds  of  heaven  he  calls  to  fan  him  ban  him  with  an 

icy  chill, 
And  the  shifting  crowds  of  clouds  go  drifting  o'er  him 

as  they  will. 

Yet  within  my  inmost  spirit  I  can  hear  an  undertone, 
That   by  law  of  prime  relation   holds    these  voices    as 

its  own, — • 
The  full  tonic  whose  harmonic  grandeurs  rise  through 

Nature's  words, 
From  the  ocean's   thundrous  rolling  to    the  trolling  of 

the  birds. 

Spirit,  O  !    my  spirit  !      Is  it  thou  art  out  of  tune  ? 
Art  thou    clinging  to    December  while    the  earth  is   in 

its  June  ? 
Hast    thou    dropped    thy   part  in    nature  ?     Hast   thou 

touched  another  key  ? 
Art  thou  angry  that  the  anthem  will  not,  cannot,  wait 

for  thee  ? 

Spirit,  thou  art  left  alone — alone  on  waters  wild  ; 
For    God    is    gone,    and    Love    is    dead,    and    Nature 

spurns  her  child. 
Thou  art  drifting  in  a  deluge,  waves  below  and  clouds 

above, 
And  with  weary  wings   come  back  to   thee,  thy  raven 

and  thy  dove. 
4 


PART   II. 

LOVE. 

As  from  a  deep,  dead  sea,  by  drastic  lift 

Of  pent  volcanic  fires,  the  dripping  form 

Of  a  new  island  swells  to  meet  the  air, 

And,  after  months  of  idle  basking,  feels 

The  prickly  feet  of  life  from  countless  germs 

Creeping  along  its  sides,  and  reaching  up 

In  fern  and  flower  to  the  life-giving  sun, 

So  from  my  grief  I  rose,  and  so  at  length 

I  felt  new  life  returning  :    so  I  felt 

The  life  already  wakened  stretching  forth 

To  stronger  light  and  purer  atmosphere. 

But  most  I  longed  for  human  love — the  source 

(So  sadly  closed),  from  which  my  life  had  drawn 

Its  sweetest  inspiration  and  reward. 

I  could  not  pray,  nor  could  my  spirit  win 

From  sights  and  sounds  of  nature  the  response 

It  vaguely  yearned  for.     They  assailed  my  sense 

With  senseless  seeming  of  the  hum  and  whirl 

Of  vast  machinery,  whose  motive  power 


Kathrina.  51 

Sought  its  own  ends,  or  wrought  for  ministry 
To  other  life  than  mine. 

I  could  stand  still, 

And  see  the  trains  sweep  by  ;  could  hear  the  roar 
Of  thundering  wheels  ;  could  watch  the  pearly  plumes 
That  floated  where  they  flew  ;  could  catch  a  glimpse 
Of  thousand  happy  faces  at  the  glass  ; 
But  felt  that  all  their  freighted  life  and  wealth 
Were  nought  to  me,  and  moved  toward  other  souls 
In  other  latitudes. 

A  year  had  flown, 

And  more,  when,  on  a  Sunday  morn  in  June, 
I  wandered  out,  to  wear  away  the  hours 
Of  growing  restlessness.     The  worshippers 
Were  thronging  to  the  service  of  the  day, 
And  gave  me  sidelong  stare,  or  shunned  me  quite  ; 
As  if  they  knew  me  for  a  reprobate, 
And  feared  a  taint  of  death. 

I  took  the  road 

That  eastward  cleft  the  town,  and  sought  the  bridge 
That  spanned  the  river,  reaching  which  I  crossed. 
Then  deep  within  the  stripes  of  springing  corn 
I  found  the  shadow  of  an  elm,  and  lay 
Stretched  on  the  downy  grass  for  listless  hours, 


52  KatJiritia. 

Dreaming  of  clays  gone  by,  or  turning  o'er 
With  careless  hand  the  pages  of  a  book 
I  had  brought  with  me. 


Tired  at  length  I  rose, 

And,  touched  by  some  light  impulse,  moved  along 
The  old,  familiar  road.     I  loitered  on 
In  a  blind  reverie,  nor  marked  the  while 
The  furlongs  or  the  time,  until  the  spell 
In  a  full  burst  of  music  was  dissolved. 
I  startled  as  one  startles  from  a  dream, 
And  saw  the  church  of  Hadley,  from  whose  doors, 
Open  to  summer  air,  the  choral  hymn 
Poured  out  its  measured  tides,  and  rose  and  fell 
Upon  the  silence  in  broad  cadences, 
As  from  a  far,  careering  sea,  the  waves 
Lift  into  silver  swells  the  sleeping  breasts 
Of  land-locked  bays. 

I  heard  the  sound  of  flutes 
And  hoarse,  sonorous  viols,  in  accord 
With  happy  human  voices, — and  one  voice — 
A  woman's  or  an  angel's— that  compelled 
My  feet  to  swift  approach.     A  thread  of  gold, 
Through  all  the  web  of  sound,  I  followed  it 
Till,  by  the  stress  of  some  strange  sympathy, 


Kathrina.  53 

And  by  no  act  of  will,  I  joined  my  voice 
To  that  one  voice  of  melody,  and  sang. 

The  heart  is  wiser  than  the  intellect, 

And  works  with  swifter  hands  and  surer  feet 

Toward  wise  conclusions.     So,  without  resort 

To  reason,  in  my  heart  I  knew  that  she 

Who  sang  had  suffered — knew  that  she  had  grieved, 

Had  hungered,  struggled,  kissed  the  cheek  of  death5 

And  ranged  the  scale  of  passions  till  her  soul 

Was  deep,  and  wide,  and  soft  with  sympathy  ; — 

Nay,  more  than  this  :    that  she  had  found  at  last 

Peace  like  a  river,  on  whose  waveless  tide 

She  floated  while  she  sang.     This  was  the  key 

That     loosed    my    prisoned    voice,    and    filled     my 

eyes 

With  tender  tears,  and  touched  to  life  again 
My  better  nature. 

When  the  choral  closed, 
And  the  last  chord  in  silence  lapsed  away, 
I  raised  my  eyes,  and,  nodding  to  the  beck 
Of  the  old,  slippered  sexton,   I  went  in, — 
Not  (shall  it  be  confessed  ?)  to  find  the  God 
At  whose  plain  altar  bowed  the  rural  throng  ; 
But,  through  a  voice,  to  follow  to  its  source 
The  influence  that  moved  me. 


54  Kathrina. 

I   was  late  ; 

And  many  eyes  looked  up  as  I  advanced 
Through  the  broad  aisle,  and  took  a  seat  that  turned 
My  face  to  all  the  faces  in  the  house. 
I  scanned  the  simpering  girls  within  the  choir, 
But  found  not  what  I  sought  ;    and  then  my  eyes 
With  rambling  inquisition  swept  the  pews, 
Pausing  at  every  maiden  face  in  vain. 
One  head,  that  crowned  a  tall  and  slender  form, 
Was  bowed  with  reverent  grace  upon  the  rail 
Before  her  ;    and,  although  I  caught  no  glimpse 
Of  her  sweet  face,  I  knew  such  face  was  there, 
And  there  the  voice. 

It  was  Communion  Day. 
The  simple  table  underneath  the  desk 
Was  draped  with  linen,  on  whose  snow  was  spread 
The  feast  of  love — the  vases  filled  with  wine, 
The  separated  bread  and  circling  cups. 
The  venerable  pastor  had  come  down 
From  his  high  pulpit,  and  assumed  the  scat 
Of  presidence,  and,  with  benignant  eyes, 
Sat  smiling  on  his  flock.     The  deacons  all 
Rose  from  their  pews — four  old,  brown-handed  men 
With  frosty  hair — and  took  the  ancient  chairs 
That  flanked  the  table.     All  the  house  was  still 
Save  here  and  there  the  rustle  of  a  silk 


Kathrina.  5 : 

Or  folding  of  a  fan  ;    and  over  all 

Brooded  the  dove  of  peace.     I  had  no  part 

In  the  fair  spectacle,    but  I  could  feel 

That  it  was  beautiful  and  sweet  as  heaven. 

When  the  old  pastor  rose,  with  solemn  mien, 

I  looked  to  see  the  lady  lift  her  head  ; 

But  still  she  bowed  ;  and  then  I  heard  these  words  ; 

"  The  person  who  unites  with  us  to-day 

Will  take  her  place  before  me  in  the  aisle, 

To  give  her  answer  to  our  creed,  and  speak 

The  pledges  of  our  covenant." 

Then  first 

I  saw  her  face.     With  modest  grace  she  rose, 
Lifted  her  hat,  and  gave  it  to  the  hand 
Of  a  companion,  and  within  the  aisle 
Stood  out  alone.     My  heart  beat  thick  and  fast 
With  vision  of  her  perfect  loveliness, 
And  apprehension  of  the  heroism 
That  shone  within  her  eyes,  and  made  her  act 
A  Christ-like  sacrifice. 

O  !  eyes  of  blue  ! 

O  !  lily  throat  and  cheeks  of  faintest  rose ! 
O  !  brow  serene,  enthroned  in  holy  thought ! 
O  !  soft,  brown  sweeps  of  hair  !     O  !  shapely  grace 
Of  maidenhood,  enrobed  in  virgin  white  ! 


56  Kathrina. 

Why,  in  your  rapt  unconsciousness  of  me 
And  all  around  you — in  the  presence-hall 
Of  God  and  angels — at  the  marriage-feast 
Of  Jesus  and  his  chosen — did  my  eyes 
Profane  the  hour  with  other  feast  than  yours  ? 

I  heard  the  "You  Believe"  of  the  old  creed 

Of  puritan  New  England  ;  and  I  heard 

The  old  "You  Promise"  of  its  covenant. 

Her  bow  of  reverent  assent  to  all 

The  knotty  dogmas,  and  her  silent  pledge 

Of  faithfulness  and  fellowship,  I  saw. 

These  formularies  were  the  frame  of  oak — 

Gnarled,    strongly    carved,    and    swart    with    age    and 

use — 

Which  held  the  lovely  picture  of  my  saint, 
And  showed  her  saintliness  <  nd  beauty  well. 

At  close  of  the  recital  and  response, 

The  pastor  raised  the  plain,  baptismal  bowl, 

And  she,  the  maiden  devotee,  advanced 

And  knelt  before  him.     Lifting  then  her  eyes 

To  him  and  heaven,  with  look  of  earnest  faith 

And  perfect  consecration,  she  received 

Upon  her  brow  the  water  from  his  hand. 

The  trickling  chrism  shone  on  her  cheeks  like  tears, 

The  while  he  joined  her  lovely  name  with  God's : 


Kathrina.  57 

"  KATHRINA,  I  BAPTIZE  THEE  IN  THE  NAME 
OF  FATHER,  SON,  AND  HOLY  GHOST,  AMEN  ! " 

Still  kneeling  like  a  saint  before  a  shrine, 

She  closed  her  eyes.     Then  lifting  up  toward  heaven 

His  hands,  the  pastor  prayed, — prayed  that  her  soul 

Might  be  forever  kept  from  stain  and  sin  ; 

That  Christ  might  live  in  her,  and  through  her  life 

Shine  into  other  souls  ;   might  give  her  strength 

To  master  all  temptation,  and  to  keep 

The  vows  that  day  assumed  ;  might  comfort  her 

In  every  sorrow,  and,  in  death's  dread  hour, 

Bear  her  in  hopeful  triumph  to  the  rest 

Prepared  for  those  who  love  him. 

All  this  scene 

I  saw  through  blinding  tears.     The  poetry 
That  like  a  soft  aureola  embraced 
Within  its  cope  those  two  contrasted  forms  ; 
The  eager  observation  and  the  hush 
That    reigned    through   all    the    house ;    the    breathless 

spell 

Of  sweet  solemnity  and  tender  awe 
Which  held  all  hearts,  when  she,  The  Beautiful, 
Received  the  sign  of  marriage  to  The  Good, 
O'erwhelmed  me,  and  I  wept.     Shall  I  confess 
That  in  the  struggle  to  repress  my  tears 
3* 


58  Kathrina. 

And  hold  my  swelling  heart,  I  grudged  her  gift, 
And  felt  that,  by  the  measure  she  had  risen, 
She  had  put  space  between  herself  and  me, 
And  quenched  my  hope  ? 

She  stood  while  courtesy 
Of  formal  Christian  welcome  was  bestowed  ; 
Then  straightway  sought  her  seat,  as  though  no  eyes 
But  those  of  One  unseen  observed  her  steps. 
I  saw  her  taste  the  sacramental  bread, 
And  touch  the  silver  chalice  to  her  lips  ; 
And  while  she  thought  of  Him,  The  Spotless  One 
Whose  flesh  and  blood  were  symboled  to  her  heart, 
And  worshipped  in  her  thought,  I  ate  and  drank 
Her  virgin  beauty — with  what  guilty  sense 
Of  profanation  ! 

Last,  the  closing  hymn 

Gave  me  her  voice  again  ;    and  this  I  drank  ; 
Nay,  this  invaded  and  pervaded  me. 
Its  subtile  search  found  out  the  sleeping  chords 
Of  sympathy  ;    and  on  the  bridge  of  sound 
It  built  between  our  souls,  I  crossed,  and  saw 
Into  the  depths  of  purity  and  love — 
The  full,  pathetic  power  of  womanhood — 
From  which  the  structure  sprang.     Just  once 
I  caught  her  eyes.     She  blushed  with  consciousness 


Kathrina.  59 

Of  my  strong  gaze  ;    but  paused  not  in  her  hymn 
Till  she  had  given  to  every  word  the  wings 
That  bore  it,  like  a  singing  bird,  toward  heaven. 

The  benediction  fell ;    and  then  the  throng 

Passed  slowly  out.     I  was  the  last  to  go. 

I  saw  a  man  whom  I  had  known,  and  shrank 

Both  from  his  greetings  and  his  questionings. 

One  thing  I  learned  :    that  she  who  thus  had  joined 

This  cluster  of  disciples  was  not  born 

And  reared  among  their  number  :    that  was  plain. 

I  saw  it  in  her  bearing  and  her  dress  ; 

In  that  unconsciousness  of  self  that  comes 

Of  gentle  breeding,  and  society 

Of  gentle  men  and  women ;    in  the  ease 

With  which  she  bore  the  awkward  deference 

Of  those  who  spoke  with  her  adown  the  aisle  ; 

In  distant  and  admiring  gaze  of  men, 

And  the  cold  scrutiny  of  village  girls 

Who  passed  for  belles. 

I  stood  upon  the  steps — 

The  last  who  left  the  door — and  there  I  found 
The  lady  and  her  friend.     The  elder  turned, 
And  with  a  cordial  greeting  took  my  hand, 
And  rallied  me  on  my  forgetfulness. 
Her  eyes,  her  smile,  her  manner  and  her  voice 


60  KatJirina. 

Touched  the  quick  springs  of  memory,  and  I  spoke 
Her  name. 


She  was  my  mother's  early  friend, 
Whose  face  I  had  not  seen  in  all  the  years 
That  had  flown  over  us,  since,  from  her  door, 
I  chased  her  lamb  to  where  I  found — myself. 
She  spoke  with  tender  words  and  swimming  eyes 
Of  her  I  mourned,  and  questioned  me  like  one 
Who  felt  a  mother's  anxious  interest 
In  all  my  cares  and  plans.     Why  did  I  not 
In  all  my  maunderings  and  wanderings 
Remember  I  had  friends,  and  visit  them — 
Not  missing  her  ?     Her  niece  was  with  her  now  ; 
Would  live  with  her,  perhaps — ("  a  lovely  girl  !  " — 
In  whisper)  ;   and  they  both  would  so  much  like 
To  see  me  at  their  house !  (whisper  again  : 
"  Poor  child  !      I   fear  it  is  but  dull  for  her, 
Here  in  the  country.")     Then  with  sudden  thought— 
"  Kathrina!" 

With  a  blushing  smile  she  turned 
(She  had  heard  every  word),  and  then  her  aunt— 
Her  voluble,  dear  aunt — presented  me 
As  an  old  friend — the  son  of  an  old  friend — 
Whose  eyes  had  promised  he  would  visit  them, 
Although,  in  her  monopoly  of  speech, 


Katlirina.  61 

She  had  quite  shut  him  from  the  chance  to  say 
So  much  as  that. 

I  caught  the  period 

Quick  as  it  dropped,  and  spoke  the  happiness 
I  had  in  meeting  them,  and  gave  the  pledge — 
No  costly  thing  to  give  —  to  end  my  walks 
On  pleasant  nightfalls  at  the  little  house 
Under  the  mountain. 

I  had  spoken  more, 

But  then  the  carriage,  with  its  single  horse, 
For  which  they  waited,  rattled  to  the  steps, 
And  we  descended.     To  their  lofty  seats 
I  helped  the  pair,  and  in  my  own  I  held 
For  one  sweet  moment,  hand  of  all  the  hands 
In  the  wide  world  I  longed  to  clasp  the  most. 
A  courteous  "  Good  Evening,  Sir,"  was  all  I  won- 
From  its  possessor  ;  but  her  lively  aunt 
With  playful  menace  shook  her  fan  at  me, 
And  said  :  "  Remember,  Paul ! "  and  rode  away. 

"  A  worldly  woman,  Sir  ! "  growled  a  grum  throat. 
I  turned,  and  saw  the  sexton.  Query-  "which?1" 
"  I  mean  the  aunt."  ,  ..  .  "  And  what  about  the 

niece  ?  " 
"  Too  fine  for  common  people  3 "  (with  a  shrug). 


62  KatJirina. 

"  I  think  she  is,"   I  said,  with  quiet  voice, 
And  turned  my  feet  toward  home. 

A  pious  girl  ! 

And  what  could  I  be  to  a  pious  girl  ? 
What  could  she  be  to  me?     Weak  questions,  thesc: 
And  vain  perhaps  ;  but  such  as  young  men  ask 
On  slighter  spur  than  mine. 

She  had  bestowed 

Her  love,  her  life,  her  goodly  self  on  heaven, 
And  had  been  nobly  earnest  in  her  gift. 
Before  all  lovers  she  had  chosen  Christ  ; 
Before  all  idols,  God  ;  before  all  wish 
And  will  of  loving  man,  her  heart  and  hand 
Were  pledged  to  duty.     Could  she  be  a  wife  ? 
Could  she  be  mine,  with  such  unstinted  wealth 
Of  love,  and  love's  devotion,  as  I  craved  ? 
Would  she  not  leave  me  for  a  Sunday  School 
Before  the  first  moon's  wane  ?     Would  she  not  seek 
The  cant  and  snuffle  of  conventicles 
"  At  early  candle-light,"  and  sing  her  hymns 
To  drivelling  boors,  and  cheat  me  of  her  songs  ? 
Would  she  exhaust  herself  in  "doing  good" 
After  the  modern  styles — in  patching  quilts, 
And  knitting  socks,  and  bearing  feeble  tracts 
To  dirty  little  children — not  to  speak 


KatJirina.  63 

Of  larger  work  for  missionary  folk  ? 

Would  there  not  come  a  time  (O !  fateful  time !) 

When  Dcrcas  and  her  host  would  fill  my  house, 

And  I  by  courtesy  be  held  at  home 

To  entertain  their  twaddle,  and  to  smile, 

While  in  God's  name  and  lovely  Charity's 

They  would  consume  my  substance  ?     Would  she  not 

Become  the  stern  and  stately  president 

Of  some  society,  or  figure  in  the  list 

Of  slim  directresses  in  spectacles  ? 

So  much  for  questions  :  then  reflections  came. 
These  pious  women  make  more  careful  wives 
Than  giddy  ones.     They  do  not  run  away, 
Though,  doubtless,  husbands  live  whose   hearts  would 

heal, 

Broken  by  such  a  blow !     The  time  they  give 
To  worship  and  to  pious  offices 
Defrauds  the  mirror  mainly  ;  and  the  gold 
That  goes  for  charity  goes  not  for  gems. 

Besides,  these  pious  and  believing  wives 
Make  gentle  mothers,  who,  with  self-control 
And  patient  firmness,  train  their  children  well — 
A  fact  to  be  remembered.     But,  alas ! 
They  train  their  husbands  too,  and  undertake 
A  mission  to  their  souls,  so  gently  pushed, 


64  Kathrina. 

So  tenderly,  they  may  not  take  offence, 

Or  punish  with  rebuff;  and  yet,  dear  hearts! 

With  such  persistence,  that  they  reach  the  raw 

Before  they  know  it  :  so  it  comes  to  tears 

At  last,  with  comfort  in  an  upper  room. 

But  then — a  seal  is  sacred  to  them,  and  a  purse 

Or  pocket-book,  though  in  a  dressing-room 

With  shutters  and  a  key ! 

Thus  wrapped  in  though; 
And  selfish  calculation  of  the  claims 
Of  one  my  peer,  or  my  superior, 
In  every  personal  and  moral  grace, 
I  walked  along,  till,  on  my  consciousness, 
Flashed  the  absurdity  of  my  conceits 
And  my  assumptions,  and  I  laughed  outright — 
Laughed  at  myself,  so  loudly  and  so  long 
That  I  was  startled.     Not  for  many  months 
Had  sound  of  mirth  escaped  me  ;  and  my  voice 
Rang  strangely  in  my  ears,  as  if  the  lips 
Of  one  long  dead  had  spoken. 

I  received 

The  token  of  returning  healthfulness 
With  warm  self -grat illation.     I  had  touched 
The  magic  hand  that  held  new  life  for  me  : 
The  cloud  was  lifted,  and  the  burden  gone. 


Kathrina.  65 

The  leaf  within  my  book  of  fate,  that  gloomed 
With  awful  records,  washed  and  blotched  by  tears — 
Blown  by  a  woman's  breath  from  finger-tip's 
They  knew  not  what  they  did — was  folded  back ; 
And  all  the  next  white  page  held  but  one  word, 
One  word  of  gold  and  flame — its  title-crown —    • 
That  wrought  a  rosy  nimbus  for  itself; 
And  that  one  word  was  LOVE. 

The  laggard  days 

My  pride  or  my  propriety  imposed 
Upon  desire,  before  my  eyes  could  see 
The  object  of  my  new-born  passion,  passed ; 
And  in  the  low  hours  of  an  afternoon. 
Bright  with  the  largess  of  kingly  shower 
Whose  chariot-wheels  still  thundered  in  the  East, 
Leaving  the  West  aflame,  I  sought  the  meads, 
And  once  again,  thrilled  by  foretasted  joy, 
Walked  toward  the  mountain. 

While  I  walked,  the  rain 
Fell  like  a  veil  of  gauze  between  my  eyes 
And  the  blue  wall  ;    and  from  the  precious  spot 
That  held  the  object  of  my  thought,  there  sprang 
An  iridal  effulgence,  faint  at  first, 
But  brightening  fast,  and  leaping  to  an  arch 
That  spanned  the  heavens — a  miracle  of  light ! 


66  Katlirina. 

"There's  treasure  where  the  rainbow  rests,"   I  said 

Would  it  evade  me,  as,  for  years  untold, 

It  had  evaded  every  childish  dupe 

Whose  feet  had  chased  the  bright,  elusive  cheat  ? 

Would  it  evade  me  ?     Question  that  arose, 

And  loomed  with  darker  front  and  huger  form 

Than  the  dark  mountain,  and  more  darkly  loomed 

And  higher  rose  as  the  long  path  grew  short  ! 

Would  it  evade  me  ?     Like  a  passing  smile 

The  rainbow  faded  from  the  mountain's  face  ; 

And  Hope's  resplendent  iris,  which  illumed 

My  question,  grew  phantasmal,  and  at  length 

Evanished,  leaving  but  a  doubtful  blur. 

Would  it  evade  me  ?     Gods !   what  wealth  or  waste 

Of  precious  life  awaited  the  reply! 

Was  it  a  coward's  shudder  that  o'erswept 

My  frame  at  thought  of  possible  repulse 

And  possible  relapse  ? 

"Oh!    there  he  comes!'' 
1  heard  the  mistress  of  the  cottage  say 
Behind  a  honeysuckle.     Did  I  smile  ? 
It  was  because  the  fancy  crossed  me  then 
That  the  announcement  was  like  one  which  rings 
Over  the  polar  seas,  when,  from  his  perch, 
The  lookout  bruits  a  long-expected  whale! 
Then  sweeping  the  piazza  from  the  spot 


KatJirina.  67 

Where  with  her  niece  she  sat,  she  hailed  me  with  : 
"So,  you  are  come  at  last!     How  very  sad 
These  men  have  so  much  business  !     Tell  me  how 
You  got  away  ;    how  soon  you  must  return  ; 
Who  suffers  by  your  absence  ;    what  the  news, 
And  whether  you  are  well." 

Brisk  medicine 

These  words  to  me,  and  timely  given.     They  broke 
The  spell  of  fear,  and  banished  my  restraint. 
She  took  my  arm,  and  led  me  to  her  niece, 
Who  greeted  me  as  if  some  special  grace 
Of  courtesy  were  due,  to  make  amends 
For  the  familiar  badinage  her  aunt 
Had  poured  upon  me. 

They  had  come  without — 

One  with  her  work,  the  other  with  her  book — 
To  taste  the  freshness  of  the  evening  air, 
Washed  of  the  hot  day's  dust  by  rain  ;    to  hear 
The  robin's  hymn  of  joy ;    and  watch  the  clouds 
That  canopied  with  gold  the  sinking  sun. 
The  maiden  in  a  pale-blue,  muslin  robe — 
Dyed  with  forget-me-nots,  I  fancied  then, 
And  sweet  with  life  in  every  fold,  I  knew — 
A  blush-rose  at  her  throat,  and  in  her  hair 
A  sprig  of  green  and  white,  was  lovelier 


68  KatJirina. 

Than  sky  or  landscape  ;     and  her  low  words  fell 
More  musically  than  the  robin's  hymn. 
So,  with  my  back  to  other  scene  and  sound, 
I  faced  the  faces,  took  the  proffered  chair 
And  looked  and  listened. 

"  Tell  us  of  yourself," 

Spoke  the  blunt  aunt,  with  license  of  her  yoars. 
"  What  are  you  doing  now?" 

"  Nothing,"  I  said. 

"  And  were  you  not  the  boy  who  was  to  grow 
Into  a  great,  good  man,  and  write  fine  books, 
And  have  no  end  of  fame  ?  " 

The  question  cut 

Deeper  than  she  intended.     The  hot  blush 
And  stammering  answer  told  her  of  the  hurt, 
And  tenderly  she  tried  to  heal  the  wound  : 
"  I  know  that  you  have  suffered  ;    but  your  hours 
Must  not  be  told  by  tears.     The  life  that  goes 
In  unavailing  sorrow  goes  to  waste." 

"True,"  1  replied,  "but  work  may  not  be  clone 
Without  a  motive.     Never  worthy  man 
Worked  worthily  who  was  not  moved  by  love. 


KatJirina,  69 

When  she  I  loved,  and  she  who  loved  me  died, 
My  motive  died  ;    and  it  can  never  rise 
Till  trump  of  love  shall  call  it  from  the  dust 
To  resurrection." 

I  spoke  earnestly, 

Without  a  thought  that  other  ears  than  hers 
Were  listening  to  my  words  ;    but  when  I  looked, 
I  saw  the  maiden's  eyes  were  dim  with  tears. 
I  knew  her  own  experience  was  touched, 
And  that  her  heart  made  answer  to  my  own 
In  perfect  sympathy. 

To  change  the  drift, 

I  took  her  book,  and  read  the  title-page  : 
"  So  you  like  poetry,"  I  said. 

"  So  well  my  aunt 
Finds  fault  with  me." 

"You  write,  perhaps?" 
"  Not  I." 

"  A  happy  woman  !  "    I  exclaimed  ;    "  in  truth, 
The  first  I  ever  found  affecting  art 
Who  shunned  expression  by  it.     If  a  girl 
Like  painting,  she  must  paint ;    if  poetry, 
She  must  write  verses.     Can  you  tell  me  why 


70  Kathrina. 

(For  sex  marks  no  distinction  in  this  thing). 
Men  with  a  taste  for  art  in  finest  forms 
Cherish  the  fancy  that  they  may  become, 
Or  are,  Art's  masters  ?     You  shall  see  a  man 
\Vho  never  drew  a  line  or  struck  an  arc 
Direct  an  architect,  and  spoil  his  work, 
Because,  forsooth  !    he  likes  a  tasteful  house ! 
He  likes  a  muffin,  but  he  docs  not  go 
Into  his  kitchen  to  instruct  his  cook, — 
Nay,  that  were  insult.     He  admires  fine  clothes, 
But  trusts  his  tailor.     Only  in  those  arts 
Which  issue  from  creative  potencies 
Does  his  conceit  engage  him.     He  could  learn 
The  baker's  trade,  and  learn  to  cut  a  coat, 
But  never  learn  to  do  that  one  great  deed 
Which  he  essays." 

"  'Tis  not  a  strange  mistake — 
These  people  make  " — she  answered,  thoughtfully. 
"  Art  gives  them  pleasure  ;  and  they  honor  those 
Whose  heads  and  hands  produce  it.      If  they  see 
The  length  and  breadth  and  beauty  of  a  thought 
Embodied  by  another, — if  they  hold 
The  taste,  the  culture,  the  capacity, 
To  measure  values  in  the  things  of  art, 
Why  cannot  they  create  ?     Why  cannot  they 
Win  to  themselves  the  honor  they  bestow 


KatJirina.  7 1 

On  those  who  feed  them  ?     Is  it  very  strange 
That  those  who  know  how  sweet  the  gratitude 
Which  the  true  artist  stirs,  should  burn  to  taste 
That  gratitude  themselves  ?  " 

"Not  strange,  perhaps," 
I  said,  "  and  yet,  it  is  a  sad  mistake  ; 
For  countless  noble  lives  have  gone  to  waste 
In  work  which  it  inspired." 

Here  spoke  the  aunt  : 

"  You  are  a  precious  pair ;  and  if  you  know 
What  you  are  talking  of,  you  know  a  deal 
More  than  your  elders.     By  your  royal  leave, 
I  will  retire  ;  for  I  can  lay  the  cloth 
For  kings  and  queens  though  I  may  fail  to  know 
Their  lore  and  language.     You  can  eat,  I  think  ; 
And  hear  a  tea-bell,  though  you  hear  not  me." 
Thus  speaking,  in  her  crisp,  good-natured  way, 
The  lady  left  us. 

When  she  passed  the  door, 
And  laughter  at  her  jest  had  had  its  way, 
I  said  :   "It  takes  all  sorts  to  make  a  world." 

"How  many,  think  you?     Only  one,  two,  three," 
The  maiden  said.     "  Here  we  have  all  the  world 


72  KathriiiK. 

In  this  one  cottage — artist,  teacher,  taught, 

In — not  to  mar  the  order  of  the  scale 

P'or  courtesy — yourself,  myself,  my  aunt. 

You  are  an  artist,  so  my  aunt  reports  ; 

But,  as  an  artist,  you  are  nought  to  her. 

And  now,  to  broach  a  petted  theory, 

Let  me  presume  too  boldly,  while  I  say 

She  cannot  understand  you,  though  I  can  ; 

You  cannot  measure  her,  though  she  is  wise. 

You  have  not  much  for  her,  and  that  you  have 

You  cannot  teach  her  ;    but  I,  knowing  her, 

Can  pick  from  your  creations  crumbs  of  thought 

She  will  find  manna.     In  the  hands  of  Christ 

The  five  loaves  grew,  the  fishes  multiplied ; 

And  he  to  his  disciples  gave  the  feast — 

They  to  the  multitude.     Artists  are  few, 

Teachers  are  thousands,  and  the  world  is  large. 

Artists  are  nearest  God.     Into  their  souls 

lie  breathes  his  life,  and  from  their  hands  it  comes 

In  fair,  articulate  forms  to  bless  the  world  ; 

And  yet,  these  forms  may  never  bless  the  world 

Except  its  teachers  take  them  in  their  hands, 

And  give  each  man  his  portion." 

As  she  spoke 

In  earnest  eloquence,  I  could  have  knelt, 
And  worshipped  her.      Her  delicate  check  was  flushed, 


Kathrina.  73 

Her  eyes  were  filled  with  light,  and  her  closed  book 

Was  pressed  against  her  heart,  whose  throbbing  tide 

Thridded  her  temples.     I  was  half  amused, 

Half  rapt  in  admiration  ;    and  she  saw 

That  in  my  eyes  at  which  she  blushed  and  pausedo 

"  Your  pardon,  Sir,"  she  said.     "  It  ill  becomes 

A  teacher  to  instruct  an  artist." 

"  Nay, 

It  does  become  you  wondrously,"  I  said 
With  light  but  earnest  words.     "Pray  you  go  on; 
And  pardon  all  that  my  unconscious  eyes 
Have  done  to  stop  you." 

"  I  have  little  more 

That  I  would  care  to  say  :    you  have  my  thought," 
She  answered  ;    "yet  there's  very  much  to  say, 
And  you  should  say  it." 

"  Not  I,  lady,  no  : 
A  poet  is  not  practical  like  you, 
Nor  sensible  like  you.     You  can  teach  him 
As  well  as  tamer  folk.     In  truth,  I  think 
He  needs  instruction  quite  as  much  as  they 
For  whom  he  writes." 

"That's  possible,"  she  said 
With  an  arch  smile. 

"Will  you  explain  yourself?' 


74  Kathrina. 

"  Well — if  you  wish  it — yes  :  "  she  made  reply. 
"  And  first,  my  auditor  must  know  that  I 
Believe  in  inspiration,  though  he  knows 
So  much  as  that  already,  from  my  words, — 
Believe  that  God  inspires  the  poet's  soul, — 
That  he  gives  eyes  to  see,  and  ears  to  hear 
What  in  his  realm  holds  finest  ministry 
For  highest  aptitudes  and  needs  of  men, 
And  skill  to  mould  it  into  forms  of  art 
Which  shall  present  it  to  the  world  he  serves. 
Sometimes  the  poet  writes  with  fire  ;    with  blood 
Sometimes  ;    sometimes  with  blackest  ink  : 
It  matters  not.     God  finds  his  mighty  way 
Into  his  verse.     The  dimmest  window-panes 
Let  in  the  morning  light,  and  in  that  light 
Our  faces  shine  with  kindled  sense  of  God 
And  his  unwearied  goodness  ;    but  the  glass 
Gets  little  good  of  it ;    nay,  it  retains 
Its  chill  and  grime  beyond  the  power  of  light 
To  warm  or  whiten.     E'en  the  prophet's  ass 
Had  better  eyes  than  he  who  strode  his  back, 
And,  though  the  prophet  bore  the  word  of  God, 
Did  finer  reverence.     The  Psalmist's  soul 
Was  not  a  fitting  place  for  psalms  like  his 
To  dwell  in  over-long,  while  waiting  words, 
If  I  read  rightly.     As  for  the  old  seers, 
Whose  eyes  God  touched  with  vision  of  the  life 


Kathrina.  75 

Of  the  unfolding  ages,  I  must  doubt 

Whether  they  comprehended  what  they  saw, 

Or  knew  what  they  recorded.     It  remains 

For  the  world's  teachers  to  expound    their  words ; 

To  probe  their  mysteries  ;  and  relegate 

The  truth  they  hold  in  blind  significance 

Into  the  fair  domains  of  history 

And  human  knowledge.     Am  I  understood  ?  " 

"  You  are,"  I  answered  ;    "  and  I  cannot  say 
You  flatter  me.     God  takes  within  his  hand 
A  thing  of  his  contrivance  which  we  call 
A  poet  :    then  he  puts  it  to  his  lips, 
And  speaks  his  word,  and  puts  it  down  again— 
The  instrument  not  better  and  not  worse 
For  being  handled  ; — not  improved  a  whit 
In  quality,  by  quality  of  that 
Which  it  conveys.     Do  I  report  aright? 
Or  do  you  prompt  me  ?  " 

"  You  arc  very  apt,'' 

She  said,  "at  learning,  but  a  little  bald 
In  statement.     Nathless,  be  it  as  you  say  ; 
And  we  shall  see  how  it  is  possible 
That  poets  need  instruction  quite  as  much 
As  those  for  whom  they  write.     What  sad,  bad  men 
The  brightest  geniuses  have  been !     How  weak, 


76  KatJirina. 

How  mean  in  character !  how  foul  in  life  ! 

How  feebly  have  the  best  of  them  retained 

The  wealth  of  good  and  beauty  which  has  flowed 

In  crystal  streams  from  God,  the  fountain  head, 

Through  them  to  fertilize  the  world !     Nay,  worse, 

How  many  of  them  have  infused  the  tide 

With  tincture  of  their  own  impurity, 

To  poison  sweetest,  unsuspecting  lips, 

And  breed  diseases  in  the  finest  blood  ! 

And  poets  not  alone,  and  not  the  worst  ; 

But  painters,  sculptors — those  whose  kingly  power 

And  aptitude  for  utterance  divine 

Have  made  them  artists  : — how  have  these  contemned 

In  countless  instances  the  God  of  Heaven 

Who    filled    them    with    his    fire !      Think    you     thai 

these 

Could  compass  their  achievements  of  themselves  ? 
Can  streams  surpass  their  fountains  ?  " 

"Nay,"  I  said, 

In  quick  response,  "Your  argument  is  good; 
But  is  the  artist  nothing?     Is  he  nought 
But  an  apt  tool — a  mouth-piece  for  a  voice  ? 
You  make  him  but  the  spigot  of  a  cask 
Round  which  you,  teachers,  wait  with  silver  cups 
To  bear  away  the  wine  that  leaves  it  dry. 
You  magnify  your  office." 


Kathrina.  77 

"We  do  all 

Wait  upon  God  for  every  grace  and  good," 
She  then  rejoined.     "  You  take  it  at  first  hand, 
And  we  from  yours  :  the  multitude  from  ours. 
It  may  leach  through  our  souls,  if  our  poor  wills 
Retain  it  not,  nnd  drench  the  fragrant  sand. 
And  if  I  magnify  my  office — well ! 
'Tis  a  great  office.     What  would  come  of  all 
The  music  of  the  masters,  did  not  we 
Wait  at  their  doors,  to  publish  to  the  world 
What  God  has  told  them  ?     They  would  be  as  mute 
As  the  dumb  Sphynx.     They  write  a  symphony, 
An  opera,  an  oratorio, 

In  language  that  the  teacher  understands, 
And  straight  the  whole  world  echoes  to  its  strains 
It  shrills  and  thunders  through  cathedral  glooms 
From  golden  organ-tubes  and  voiceful  choirs ; 
The  halls  of  art  of  both  the  hemispheres 
Resound  with  its  divinest  melodies  ; 
The  street  stirs  with  the  impulse,  and  we  hear 
The  blare  of  martial  trumpets,  and  the  tramp 
Of  bannered  armies  swaying  to  its  rhythm  ; 
The  hurdy-gurdies  and  the  whistling  boys 
Adopt  the  lighter  strains  ;  and  round  and  round 
A  million  souls  its  hovering  fancies  float, 
Like  butterflies  above  a  fair  parterre, 
Till,  settling  one  by  one,  they  sleep  at  last ; 


78  KaiJirina. 

And  lo !  two  petals  more  on  every  flower  ! 

And  this  not  all  ;  for  though  the  master  die, 

The  teacher  lives  forever.     On  and  on, 

Through  all  the  generations,  he  shall  preach 

The  beautiful  evangel ; — on  and  on, 

Till  our  poor  race  has  passed  the  tortuous  years 

That  lie  prevening  the  millennium, 

And  slid  into  that  broad  and  open  sea, 

He  shall  sail  singing  still  the  songs  he  learned 

In  the  world's  youth,  and  sing  them  o'er  and  o'er 

To  lapping  waters,  till  the  thousand  leagues 

Are  overpast,  and  argosy  and  crew 

Ride  at  their  port." 

"True  as  to  facts,"  I  said 
"  And  as  to  prophecies,  most  credible  ; 
But,  as  an  illustration,  false,  I  think. 
That  which  the  voice  and  instrument  may  do 
For  the  composer,  types  may  do  for  those 
Who  mint  their  thoughts  in  verse.     Music  is  writ 
In  language  that  the  people  do  not  read — 
Is  lame  in  that — and  needs  interpreters  ; 
While  poetry,  e'en  in  its  noblest  forms 
And  boldest  flights,  speaks  their  vernacular. 
Your  aunt  can  read  the  book  within  your  hand 
As  well  as  you,  if  she  desire,  yet  finds 
Your  score  all  Greek,  until  you  vocalize 


KatJinna.  79 

Its  wealth  of  hidden  meaning.     As  for  arts 

Which  meet  the  eye  in  picture  and  in  form, 

They  ask  no  mediator  but  the  light — 

No  grace  but  privilege  to  shine  with  naught 

Between  them  and  the  light.     They  are  themselves 

Expositors  of  that  which  they  expose, 

Or  they  are  nothing.     All  the  middle-men — 

The  fools  profound— who  take  it  on  their  tongues 

To  play  the  showmen,  strutting  up  and  down, 

And  mouthing  of  the  beauty  that  they  hide, 

Are  an  impertinence." 

"  You  leave  no  room 

For  critics,"  she  suggested,   with  a  smile. 
"  We  must  not  spoil  a  trade,  or  starve  the  wives 
And  innocent  babes  it  feeds." 

"No  care  for  them!' 

I  made  reply.     "  They  do  not  need  much  room — 
Men  of  their  build — and  what  they  need  they  take. 
The  feeble  conies  burrow  in  the  rocks  ; 
But  the  trees  grow,  and  we  are  not  aware 
Of  space  encumbered  by  them." 

"  Yet  the  fact 

Still  stands  untouched,"  she  added,  thoughtfully, 
"  That  greatest  artists  speak  to  fewest  souls, 


8o  Kathrina. 

Or  speak  to  them  directly.     They  have  need 
Of  no  such  ministry  as  waits  the  beck 
Of  the  composer  ;    but  they  need  the  life, 
If  not  the  learning,  of  the  cultured  few 
Who  understand  them.     If  from  out  my  book 
I  gather  that  which  feeds  me,  and  inspires 
A  nobler,  sweeter  beauty  in  my  life, 
And  give  my  life  to  those  who  cannot  win 
From  the  dim  text  such  boon,  then  have  I  borne 
A  blessing  from  the  book,  and  been  its  best 
Interpreter.     The  bread  that  comes  from  heaven 
Needs  finest  breaking.     Some  there  doubtless  are- 
Some  ready  souls — that  take  the  morsel  pure 
Divided  to  their  need ;   but  multitudes 
Must  have  it  in  admixtures,  menstruums, 
And  forms  that  human  hands  or  human  life 
Have  moulded.     Though  the  multitudes  may  find 
Something  to  stir  and  lift  their  sluggish  souls 
In  sight  of  great  cathedrals,  or  in  view 
Of  noble  pictures,  yet  they  see  not  all, 
And  not  the  best.     That  which  they  do  not  see 
Must  enter  higher  souls,  and  there,  by  art 
Or  life,  be  fashioned  to  their  want." 

"  Your  thought 

Grows  subtle,"  I  responded,  "  and  I  grant 
Its  force  and  beauty.     If  the  round  truth  lie 


Kathrina.  8 1 

Somewhere  between  us,  and  I  see  the  face 
It  turns  to  me  in  stronger  light  than  you 
Reveal  its  opposite,  why,  let  the  fault  be  mine  ; 
It  is  not  yours.     You  have  instructed  me, 
And  won  my  thanks." 

"Instructed  you?"  she  said; 

With  a  fine  blush  :   "  you  mock,  you  humble  me. 
And  have  I  talked  so  much,  with  such  an  air, 
That,  either  earnestly  or  in  a  jest, 
You  can  say  this  to  me  ?  " 

"  'Tis  not  a  sin, 

In  latitude  of  ours,"  I  made  reply, 
"To  talk  philosophy;  'tis  only  rare 
For  beardless  lips  to  do  so.     I  have  caught 
From  yours  a  finer,  more  suggestive  scheme 
Than  all  the  wise  have  taught  me  by  their  books, 
Or  by  their  voices.     I  will  think  of  it." 

"  Now  may  you  be  forgiven  !  "    the  aunt  exclaimed, 
Approaching  unobserved.     "There  never  lived 
A  quieter,  more  plainly  speaking  girl, 
Than  my  Kathrina.     All  these  weeks  and  months, 
I  have  heard  nought  from  her  but  common  sense  ; 
But  when  you  came,  why,  off  she  went ;  though  where 
It's  more  than  I  know.     You,  sir,  have  the  blame  ; 
4* 


82  KatJirina. 

And  you  must  lift  your  spell,  and  give  her  back 
Just  as  you  found  her." 

"  She  has  practised  well 

Her  scheme  on  us.     She  breaks  to  you  the  bread 
That  meets  your  want ;   to  me,  that  meets  my  own," 
I  said,  in  answering. 

"  Well,"  spoke  the  aunt, 

"  I  think  I'll  try  my  hand  at  breaking  bread  : 
So,  follow  me." 

We  followed  to  her  board, 
And  there,  in  converse  suited  to  the  hour 
And  presence  of  our  hostess,  proved  ourselves — 
Quite  to  that  lady's  liking — of  the  earth. 
We  ate  her  jumbles  for  her,  sipped  her  tea, 
And  revelled  in  the  spicy  succulence 
Of  her  preserves. 

While  still  I  sat  at  ease, 

The  maiden's  eye,  with  quick,  uneasy  glance, 
Sought  the  clock's  dial.     Then  she  turned  to  me. 
And  said  with  sweet,  respectful  courtesy  : 
"  Pray  you  excuse  my  presence  for  an  hour. 
A  duty  calls  me  out ;    and  that  performed;, 
I  will  return." 


Kathrina.  83 

I  saw  she  marked  my  look 
Of  disappointment — that  it  staggered  her — 
The  while  with  words  of  stiffest  commonplace 
I  gave  assent.     But  she  was  on  her  feet ; 
And  soon  I  heard  her  light  step  on  the  stair, 
Seeking  her  chamber. 

"  Whither  will  she  go 

At  such  an  hour  as  this,  from  you  and  me  ?  " 
I  coldly  questioned  of  the  keen-eyed  aunt. 

"  You  men  are  very  curious,"  she  said. 

"  I  knew  you'd  ask  me.     Can't  a  lady  stir, 

But  you  must  call  her  to  account  ?     Who  knows 

She  may  not  have  some  rustic  lover  here 

With  whom  she  keeps  her  tryst  ?     'Tis  an  old  trick, 

Not  wholly  out  of  fashion  in  these  parts. 

What  matters  it  ?     She  orders  her  own  ways, 

And  has  discretion." 

With  lugubrious  voice 

I  said  :     "  You  trifle,  madam,  with  my  wish. 
1  know  the  lady  has  no  lover  here, 
And  so  do  you." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that !  " 
My  hostess  made  response  ;    and  then  she  laughed 


84  Kathrina. 

A  rippling,  rollicking  roulade,  and  shook 
Her  finger  at  me,  till  my  temples  burned 
With  the  hot  shame  she  summoned. 

"  There!  "    I  said; 
':  You've    done  your  worst,  and    learned    so    much,    it 

least — 

That  I  admire  your  niece.     7  curious  ! 
Well,  you  are  curious  and  cunning  too. 
Now,  in  the  moment  of  your  victory, 
Be  generous  ;    and  tell  me  what  may  call 
The  lady  from  us." 

"  It  is  Thursday  night/' 
She  answered  soberly, — "  the  weekly  hour 
At  which  our  quiet  neighborhood  convenes 
For  social  worship.     You  may  guess  the  rest 
Without  my  telling ;    but  you  cannot  know 
With  what  anticipated  joy  she  leaves 
Our  company,  or  with  what  shining  face 
She  will  return." 

At  that,  I  heard  her  dress 
Sliding  trie  flight,  and  rising,  made  my  way 
To  meet  her  at  its  foot.      A  happy  smile 
Illumed  her  features,  as  she  gave  her  hand 
With  thought  of  parting.     I  had  rallied  all 


Kathrina.  85 

My  self-control  and  gallantry  meanwhile, 

And  said  :     "  Not  here.      I'll  with  you,  by  your  leave, 

So  far  as  you  may  walk." 

There  was  a  flash 

Of  gladness  in  her  eyes,  and  in  her  thanks 
A  subtler  charm  than  gratitude. 

I  bade 

My  hostess  a  "  good-night,"  and  left  her  door. 
Declining  her  entreaty  to  return. 
We  walked  in  silence,  side  by  side,  a  space, 
And  then,  with  feigned  indifference,   I  spoke  : 
"  Your  aunt  has  told  me  of  your  errand;  else, 
It  had  been  modest  in  me  to  withhold 
This  tendance  on  your  steps.     She  tells  me  you 
Are  quite  a  devotee.     Whom  do  you  meet, 
In  neighborhood  like  this,  to  give  a  zest 
To  hour  like    this  ?  " 

"  Brothers  and  sisters  all/' 
She  said  in  low  reply  ;    "  and  as  for  zest, 
There's  never  lack  of  it  where  there  is  love. 
When  families  convene,  they  have  no  need 
Of  more  than  love  to  give  them  festal  joy  ; 
Nor  do  they  with  discrimination  judge 
Between  the  high  and  humble.     These  are  one  ; 
Love  makes  them  one." 


86  Kathnna. 

"And  you  are  one  with  these?" 

"  Though  most  unworthy  of  such  fellowship, 
I  trust  that  I  am  one  with  these  ; — that  they 
Are  one  with  me,  and  reckon  me  among 
Their  number." 

"  Can  they  do  you  any  good  ?  •' 

"  They  can,"  she  said,  "  but  were  it  otherwise, 
I  can  serve  them  ;    and  so  should  seek  them  still. 
I  help  them  in  their  songs." 

We  reached  too  soon 
The  open  doorway  of  the  humble  hut 
Which,  far  long  years,  had  held  the  village  school, 
And,  at  a  little  distance,  paused.     The  room, 
Battered  and  black  by  wantonest  abuse 
Of  the  rude  youth,  was  lit  by  feeble  lamps, 
Brought  by  the  villagers  ;    and  scattered  round 
Upon  the  high,  hacked  benches,  hardly  less 
flude  and  rough-worn  than  they,  the  worshippers 
/n  silence  sat.     It  was  no  place  for  words. 
I  took  the  lady's  hand,  and  said  "  good-night !  " 
Jn  whisper.     Then  she  turned,  and  disappeared 
Within  the  sheltered  gloom  ;    but  I  could  see 
The  care-worn  cheeks  light  up  with  pleasant  fire 


Kathrina.  87 

As  she  passed  in  ;    and  e'en  the  fainting  lamps 
Flared  with  new  life,  the  while  they  caught  the  breath 
Of  her  sweet  robe.     Then  with  an  angry  heart 
I  turned  away,  and,  wrapped  in  selfish  thought, 
Took  up  the  walk  toward  home. 

This  homely  group 

Of  Yankee  lollards  she  preferred  to  me ! 
These  poor,  pinched  boobies,  with  their  silly  wives — 
Ah !    these  were  they  who  gave  her  overmuch 
In  the  bestowal  of  their  fellowship  ! 
These  crowned  her  with  a  peerless  privilege, 
Permitting  her  to  sit  with  them  an  hour 
As  a  dear  sister !     How  my  sore  self-love 
Burned  with  the  hot  affront ! 

With  lips  compressed, 

Or  blurting  forth  their  anger  and  disgust, 
I  strode  the  meadows,  stalked  the  silent  town, 
And  growled  and  groaned  in  sullen  helplessness 
About  the  streets,  until  the  midnight  bell 
Tolled  from  the  old  church  tower  ; — in  helplessness, 
For,  mattered  nothing  what  or  who  she  was 
(I  had  not  dared  or  cared  to  question  that), 
Or  how  offensive  in  her  piety 
And  her  devotion  to  the  tasteless  cult 
Of  the  weak  throng,  I  was  her  slave  ;    and  she — 


88  Kathrina. 

Her  own  and  God's.     The  miserable  strife 
Between  my  love  of  self  and  love  of  her 
I  knew  was  bootless  ;    and  the  trenchant  truth 
Cut  to  the  quick.     She  held  within  her  hand 
My  heart,  my  life,  my  doom,  yet  knew  it  not; 
And  had  she  known,  her  soul  was  under  vows 
\Vhich  would  forever  make  subordinate 
Their  recognized  possession. 

But  the  morn 

Brought  with  it  better  mood  and  calmer  thought: 
I  had  the  grace  to  gauge  the  heartlessness 
Of  my  exactions,  and  the  power  to  crush 
The  tyrant  wish  to  tear  her  from  the  throne 
To  which  she  clung.     I  said  :    "So  she  love  me 
As  a  true  woman  loves,  and  give  herself — 
Her  sweet,  pure  self — to  me,  and  fill  my  home 
With  her  dear  presence,  loyal  still  to  me 
In  wifely  love  and  wifely  offices, 
Though  she  abide  in  Christian  loyalty 
By  Christian  vows,  she  shall  have  liberty, 
And  hold  it  as  her  right." 

She  was  my  peer ; 

No  weakling  girl,  who  would  surrender  will 
And  life  and  reason,  with  her  loving  heart, 
To  her  possessor  ; — no  soft,  clinging  thing 


Kathrina.  89 

Who  would  find  breath  alone  within  the  arms 

Of  a  strong  master,  and  obediently 

Wait  on  his  whims  in  slavish  carefulness ; — 

No  fawning,  cringing  spaniel,  to  attend 

His  royal  pleasure,  and  account  herself 

Rewarded  by  his  pats  and  pretty  words. 

But  a  round  woman,  who,  with  insight  keen, 

Had  wrought  a  scheme  of  life,  and  measured  well 

Her  womanhood ;    had  spread  before  her  feet 

A  fine  philosophy  to  guide  her  steps  ; 

Had  won  a  faith  to  which  her  life  was  brought 

In  strict  adjustment — brain  and  heart  meanwhile 

Working  in  conscious  harmony  and  rhythm 

With  the  great  scheme  of  God's  great  universe, 

On  toward  her  being's  end. 

I  could  but  know 

Her  motives  were  superior  to  mine. 
I   could  but  feel  that  in  her  loyalty 
To  God  and  duty,  she  condemned  my  life. 
Into  her  woman's  heart,  thrown  open  wide 
In  holy  charity,  she  had  drawn  all 
Of  human  kind,  and  found  no  humblest  soul 
Too  humble  for  her  entertainment, — none 
So  weak  it  could  return  no  grateful  boon 
For  what  she  gave  ;    and  standing  modestly 
Within  her  scheme,  with  meekest  reverence 


90  Kathrina. 

She  bowed  to  those  above  her,  yet  with  strong 
And  hearty  confidence  assumed  a  place 
In  service  of  the  world,  as  minister 
Ordained  of  heaven  to  break  to  it  the  bread 
She  took  from  other  hands.     And  she  was  one 
Who  could  see  all  there  was  of  good  in  me, — 
Could  measure  well  the  product  of  my  power, 
And  give  it  impulse  and  direction  :    nay, 
Could  supplement  my  power  ;  and  help  my  heart 
Against  its  foes. 

The  moment  that  I  thrust 
The  selfish  thirsting  for  monopoly 
Of  her  affections  from  my  godless  heart, 
She  entered  in,  and  reigned  a  goddess  there. 
If  she  had  fascinated  me  before, 
And  fired  my  heart  with  passion,  now  she  bent 
My  spirit  to  profound  respect.     I  bowed 
To  the  fair  graces  of  her  character, 
Her  queenly  gifts,  and  the  beneficence 
Of  her  devoted  life,  with  humbled  heart 
And  self-depreciation.     All  of  God 
That  the  world  held  for  me,  I  found  in  her; 
And  in  her,  all  the  God  I  sought.     She  was 
My  saviour  from  myself  and  from  my  sins ; 
For,  with  my  worship  of  the  excellence 
Which  she  embodied,  came  the  purity 


Kathrina.  91 

And  peace  to  which,  through  all  my  troubled  life, 
I  had  been  stranger.     Thoughts  and  feelings  all 
Were  sublimated  by  the  subtle  flame 
Which  warmed  and  wrapped  me;  and  I  walked -as  one 
Might  walk  on  air,  with  things  of  earth  beneath, 
Breathing  a  rare,  supernal  atmosphere 
Which  every  sense  and  faculty  informed 
With  light  and  life  divine. 

What  need  to  tell 

Of  the  succeeding  summer  days,  and  all 
Their  deeds  and  incidents  ?     They  floated  by 
Like  silent  sails  upon  a  summer  sea, 
That,  sweeping  in  from  farthest  heaven  at  morn, 
Traverse  the  vision,  and  at  evening  slide 
Out  into  heaven  again,  their  pennant-flames 
The  rosy  dawns  and  day- falls.     O'er  and  o'er, 
I    walked    the    path,    and    crossed    the    stream,    that 

lay 

Between  me  and  the  idol  of  my  heart ; 
And  every  day,  in  every  circumstance, 
1  found  her  still  the  same,  yet  not  the  same  ; 
For,  every  day,  some  unsuspected  grace, 
Or  some  fresh  revelation  of  her  wealth 
Of  character  and  culture,  touched  my  heart 
To  new  surprise,  and  overflowed  the  cup 
Whose  wine  was  life  to  me. 


92  KatJirina. 

Though  I  could  see 

That  I  was  not  unwelcome  ;  though  I  knew 
I  gave  a  zest  to  her  sequestered  life, 
I  had  built  up  so  high  my  only  hope 
On  her  affection — I  had  given  myself 
So  wholly  to  the  venture  for  her  hand, 
I  did  not  dare  to  speak  of  love,  or  ask 
The  question  which,  unasked,  held  hopefully 
My  destiny  :  which  answered,  might  bring  doom 
Of  madness  or  of  death. 

Meanwhile,  I  learned 
The  lady's  history  from  other  lips 
Than  her's — her  aunt's.     Alas  !  the  old,  old  tale  ! 
She  had  been  bred  to  luxury ;  and  all 
That  wealth  could  purchase  for  her,  or  the  friends 
Swarmed  by  its  golden  glamour  could  bestow, 
She  had  possessed.     But  he  who  won  the  wealth, 
Reaching  for  more,  slipped  from  his  height  and  fell 
Dragging  his  house  to  ruin.     Then  he  died — 
Died  in  disgrace  ;  and  all  his  thousand  friends 
Fell  off,  and  left  his  pampered  family, 
The  while  the  noisy  auctioneer  knocked  down 
His  house  and  household  gods,  and  set  adrift 
The  helpless  life  thus  cruelly  bereft. 
The  mother  lived  a  month  :  the  rest  went  forth, 
Not  knowing  whither  ;  but  they  found  among 


Kathrina.  9? 

The  poor  a  shelter  for  their  poverty, — 
Kathrina  with  her  aunt.     Thus,  in  few  words, 
A  tragedy  of  heart-breaks  and  of  death, 
Such  as  the  world  abounds  with. 

But  this  girl, 

With  her  quick  instincts  and  her  brave,  good  heart. 
Determined  she  would  live  awhile,  and  learn 
What  lesson  God  would  teach  her.     This  she  sought, 
And,  seeking,  found,  or  thought  she  found.     Hew  well 
She  learned  the  lesson — what  the  lesson  was — 
Her  life,  thus  far  revealed,  and  waiting  still 
My  feeble  record,   shall  disclose.     Enough, 
Just  now  and  here,  that  out  of  it  she  bore 
A  noble  womanhood,  accepting  all 
Her  great  misfortunes  as  the  discipline 
Of  a  paternal  hand,  in  love  prescribed 
To  lead  her  to  her  place,  and  whiten  her 
For  Christian  service. 

All  the  summer  fled  ; 

\nd  still  my  heart  delayed.     One  pleasant   eve, 
A^hen  first  the  creaking  of  the  crickets  told 
Of  Autumn's  opening  door,  I  went  with  her 
To  ramble  in  the  fields.     We  touched  the  hem 
Of  the  dark  mountain's  robe,  that  falls  in  folds 
Of  emerald  sward  around  his  feet,  and  there 


94  Kathrina. 

Upon  its  tufted  velvet  we  sat  down. 

It  was  my  time  to  speak,  but  I  was  dumb  ; 

And  silence,  painful  and  portentous,  hung 

Upon  us  both.    At  length,  she  turned  and  said  : 

"  Some  days  have  passed  since  you  were  latest  here 

Have  you  been  ill  ?  " 

"No,  I  have  been  at  work/" 
!  answered, — "  at  my  own  delightful  work  ; 
The  first  since  first  we  met.     The  record  lies 
Where  I  may  reach  it  at  a  word  from  you. 
Command,  and  I  will  read    it." 

"  I  command," 

She  said,  responding  with  a  laugh.     "  Nay,   I 
Entreat.     I  used  your  word,  but  this  is  mine, 
And  has  a  better  sound  from  lips  of  mine. 
I  am  your  waiting  auditor." 

I  read  : 

*'  Was  it  the  tale  of  a  talking  bird  ? 

Was  it  a  dream  of  the  night  ? 
When  have  I  seen  it  ?     Where  have  I  heard 
Of  the  haps  of  a  dainty  craft,  that  stirred 

My  spirit  with  affright  ? 


KatJirina.  95 

ic  The  shallop  stands  out  from  the  sheltered  bav 

With  a  burden  of  spirits  twain, — 
A  woman  who  lifts  her  eyes  to  pray, 
A  tall  youth,  trolling  a  roundelay, 

And  before  them  night,  and  the  main  ! 


"'  O  !    Star  of  The  Sea  !     They  will  come  to  harm  : 

Nor  master  nor  sailor  is  there  ! 
The  youth  clasps  the  mast  with  his  sinewy  arm, 
And  laughs !     Does  he  hold  in  his  bosom  a  charm 

That  will  baffle  the  sprites  of  the  air? 


O  !   woe  to  the  delicate  ship  !     O  !  woe  ! 

For  the  sun  is  sunk,  and  behold  ! 
The  trooping  phantoms  that  come  and  go 
In  the  sky  above  and  the  waves  below  ! 

Ho !     The  wind  blows  wild  and  cold. 


'-''  The  woman  is  weeping  in  weak  despair  ; 

The  youth  still  clings  to  the  mast, 
WJth  cheeks  aflame,  and  with  eyes  that  stare 
At  the  phantoms  hovering  everywhere  ; 
And  the  storm-rack  rises  fast ! 


fc  Kathrina. 

The  phantoms  close  on  the  flying  bark  ; 

They  flutter  about  her  peak  ; 
They  sweep  in  swarms  from  the  outer  dark  ; 
But  the  youth  at  the  mast  stands  still  and  stark, 

While  they  flap  his  stinging  cheek. 


They  shiver  the  bolts  that  the  lightning  flings ; 

They  bellow  and  roar  and  hiss  ; 
They  splash  the  deck  with  their  slimy  wings — 
Monstrous,  horrible,  ghastly  things — 

That  climb  from  the  foul  abyss. 


No  star  shines  out  at  the  woman's  prayer ; 

O !  madly  distraught  is  she  ! 
And  the  bark  drives  on  with  her  wild  despair 
With  shrieking  fiends  in  the  crowded  air, 

And  fiends  on  the  swarming  sea. 


'   Then  out  of  the  water  before  their  sight 
A  shape  loomed  bare  and  black ! 

So  black  that  the  darkness  bloomed  with  white  ; 

So  black  that  the  lightning  grew  strangely  bright 
And  it  lay  in  the  shallop's  track  ! 


Kathrina.  97 

"  O  !    fierce  was  the  shout  of  the  goblins  then  ! 

How  the  gibber  and  laugh  went  round ! 
The  shout  and  the  laugh  of  a  thousand  men, 
Echoed  and  answered,  and  echoed  again, 
Would  have  been  a  feebler  sound. 


"  Straight  toward  the  blackness  drove  the  ship  ; 

But  the  youth  still  clung  to  the  mast  : 
'  1   have  read,'  quoth  he,  with  a  proud,  cold  Ii 
'  That  the  devil  gets  never  a  man  on  the  hip 
Whom  he  scares  not,  first  or  last.' 


"  Nearer  the  blackness  loomed  ;   and  the  bark 

Scudded  before  the  breeze  ; 
Nearer  the  blackness  loomed,  and  hark  ! 
The  crash  of  breakers  out  of  the  dark, 

And  the  shock  of  plunging  seas ! 


O  !   woe  !  for  the  woman's  wits  ran  daft 

With  the  fearful  bruit  and  burst ; 
She  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  flitting  aft, 
She  plunged  in  the  sea,  and  the  black  waves:  quaffed 

The  sweet  life  they  had  cursed. 


98  Kathrina. 

"  Light  leaped  the  bark  on  the  mountain-breast 

Of  a  tenth-wave  out  to  land  ; 
While  the  sprites  of  the  sea  fell  off  to  rest, 
And  the  youth,  unharmed,  became  the  guest 
Of  the  elves  of  the  silent  land. 


"  With  banter  and  buffet  they  pressed  around  ; 

They  tied  his  strong  hands  fast ; 
But  he  laughed,  and  said,   '  I  have  read  and  found 
That  the  devil  throws  never  a  man  to  the  ground 

Whom  he  scares  not,  first  or  last.' 


"  Under  the  charred  and  ghastly  gloom, 

Over  the  flinty  stones, 
They  led  him  forth  to  his  terrible  doom, 
And,  plunged  in  a  deep  and  noisome  tomb, 
They  sat  him  among  the  bones. 


*  They  left  him  there  in  the  crawling  mire  : 

They  could  neither  maim  nor  kill  : 
For  fiends  of  water,  and  earth,  and  fire, 
Are  baffled  and  beaten  by  the  ire 
Of  a  dauntless  human  -.vill. 


KatJirina.  99 

:'  Days  flushed  and  faded,  months  passed  away, 

He  knew  by  the  golden  light 
That  shot,  through  a  loop  in  the  wall,  the  ray 
Which  parted  the  short  and  slender  day 
From  the  long  and  doleful  night. 


Was  it  a  vision  that  cheated  his  eyes  ? 

Was  he  awake,  or  no  ? 

He  stared  through  the  loop  with  keen  surprise, 
For  he  saw  a  sweet  angel  from  the  skies, 

With  white  wings,  folded  low. 


Could  she  not  loose  him  from  his  thrall, 

And  lead  him  into  the  light  ? 
'  Ah  me ! '  he  murmured,  '  I  dare  not  call, 
Lest  she  may  doubt  it  a  goblin's  waul, 
And  leave  me  in  swift  affright ! ' 


She  plumed  her  wings  with  a  noiseless  haste  ; 

He  could  neither  call  nor  cry  : 
She  vanished  into  the  sunny  waste, 
Into  far  blue  air  that  he  longed  to  taste ; 

And  he  cursed  that  he  could  not  die. 


ioo  Kathrina. 

"  But  she  came  again,  and  every  day 

He  worshipped  her  where  she  shone  ; 
And  again  she  left  him  and  floated  away, 
But  his  faithless  tongue  refused  to  pray 
For  the  boon  she  could  give  alone. 

"  And  there  he  sits  in  his  dumb  despair, 

And  his  watching  eyes  grow  dim  : 
Would  God  that  his  coward  lips  might  dare 
To  utter  the  word  to  the  angel  fair, 
That  is  life  or  death  to  him  !  " 

I  marked  her  as  I  read,  a  furtive  glance 
Filling  each  pause.     The  passion  of  the  piece, 
Flaming  and  fading,  ever  and  anon, 
Mirrored  itself  within  her  tender  eyes, 
Themselves  the  mirror  of  her  tender  soul, 
And  fixed  attent  upon  my  face  the  while. 

She  had  not  caught  my  meaning,  but  had  heard 
Only  a  weird,  wild  story.     When  I  paused, 
Folding  the  manuscript,  I  saw  a  shade 
Of  disappointment  sweep  her  face,  and  marked 
A  question  rising  in  her  eyes.     She  knew 
That  I  was  waiting  for  her  words,  and  turned 
Her  look  away,  and  for  long  moments  gazed 
Into  the  brooding  dusk. 


Kathrina.  101 

"Speak  it!"  I  said. 

"  'Twas  very  strange  and  sad,"  she  answered  me. 
"  Why  do  you  write  such  things? — or,  writing  such5 
Leave  them  so  incomplete  ?     The  prisoned  youth. 
Thus  unreleased,  will  haunt  me  while  I  live. 
I  shudder  while  I  think  of  him." 

Then  I  : 

"  The  poem  will  be  finished,  by-and-by, 
For  this  is  history,  and  antedates 
No  fact  that  it  records.     Whether  this  youth 
Shall  live  entombed,  or  reach  the  blessed  air, 
Depends  upon  his  angel ;  for  he  calls — 
I  hear  him  call,  and  call  again  her  name 
Kathrina  !     O  !  Kathrina  !  " 

Like  the  flash 

Of  the  hot  lightning,  the  significance 
Of  the  strange  vision  gleamed  upon  her  face 
In  a  bright,  throbbing  flame,  that  fell  full  soon 
To  ashen  paleness.     By  unconscious  will 
We  both  arose.     She  vainly  tried  to  speak, 
And  gazed  into  my  eyes  with  such  a  look 
Of  tender  questioning,  of  half-reproach, 
Of  struggling,  doubting,  hesitating  joy, 
As  few  men  ever  see,  and  none  but  once. 


IO2  KatJirina. 

Are  there  not  lofty  moments,  when  the  soul 

Leaps  to  the  front  of  being,  casting  off 

The  robes  and  clumsy  instruments  of  sense, 

And,  postured  in  its  immortality, 

Reveals  its  independence  of  the  clod 

In  which  it  dwells  ? — moments  in  which  the  earth 

And  all  material  things,  all  sights  and  sounds, 

All  signals,  ministries,  interpreters, 

Relapse  to  nothing,  and  the  interflow 

Of  thought  and  feeling,  love  and  life  go  on 

Between  two  spirits,  raised  to  sympathy 

By  an  inspiring  passion,  as,  in  heaven, 

The  body  dust,  within  an  orb  outlived, 

It  shall  go  on  forever  ? 

Moments  like  these — 

Nay,  these  in  very  truth — were  given  us  then. 
Who  shall  expound — ah!  who  but  God  alone, 
The  everlasting  mystery  of  love  ? 
She  spoke  not,  but  I  knew  that  she  was  mine. 
I  breathed  no  word,  but  she  was  well  assured 
That  I  was  wholly  her's. 

In  what  disguise 

Our  love  had  hid,  and  wrought  its  miracle  ; 
Behind  what  semblance  of  indifference, 
Or  play  of  courtesy,  it  spun  the  cords 


Kathrina.  103 

That  bound  our  hearts  in  one,  was  mystery 

Like  love  itself.     The  swift  intelligence 

Of  interchange  of  perfect  faith  and  troth, 

Of  gift  of  life  and  person,  of  the  thrill 

Of  triumph  in  my  soul  and  gratitude 

In  hers,  without  a  gesture,  or  a  word, 

Was  like  the  converse  of  the  continents   •- 

Tracking  with  voiceless  flight  the  slender  wire 

That  underlay  the  throbbing  mystery 

Between  our  souls,  and  made  our  heart-beats  one. 

I  opened  wide  my  arms,  and  she,  my  own, 

Sobbed  on  my  breast  with  such  excess  of  joy, 

In  such  embrace  of  passionate  tenderness, 

As  heaven  may  yield  again,  but  never  earth. 

Slow  in  the  golden  twilight,  toward  her  home, 
Her  hand  upon  my  arm,  we  loitered  on, 
Silent  at  first,  and  then  with  quiet  speech 
Broaching  our  plans,  or  tracing  in  review 
The  history  of  our  springing  love,  when  she, 
Lifting  her  soft  blue  eyes  to  mine  : 

11  Dear  Paul  ! 

There  are  some  things,  and  some  I  will  not  name, 
That  make  me  sad,  e'en  in  this  height  of  joy. 
In  the  wild  lay  that  you  have  read  to-night, 
You  make  too  much  of  me.     No  heart  of  man. 


IC4  KatJirina. 

Though  loving  well  and  loving  worthily, 

Can  be  content  with  any  human  love. 

No  woman,  though  the  pride  and  paragon 

Of  all  her  sex,  can  take  the  place  of  God. 

No  angel  she  :    nor  is  she  quite  a  man 

In  power  and  courage, — gifts  which  charm  her  most 

And  which,  possessing  most,  disrobe  her  charms, 

And  make  her  less  a  woman.     If  she  stand 

In  fair  equality  with  man — his  mate — 

Each  unto  each  the  rounded  complement 

Of  their  humanity,  it  is  enough  ; 

And  such  equality  must  ever  lie 

In  their  unequal  gifts.     This  thing,  at  least, 

Is  true  as  God  :    she  is  not  more  than  he, 

And  sits  upon  no  throne.     To  be  adored 

By  man,  she  must  be  placed  upon  a  throne 

Built  by  his  hands,  and  sit  an  idol  there, 

Degraded  by  the  measure  of  the  flight 

Between  God's  thought  and  man's." 

Responding,  I 

"  Fix  your  own  place,  my  love  ;    it  is  your  right, 
'Tis  well  to  have  a  theory,  and  sit 
In  the  centre  of  it,  mistress  of  its  law, 
And  subject  also  ; — to  set  men  up  here 
And  women  there,  in  a  fine  equipoise 
Of  gift  and  grace  and  import.     It  conveys 


KatJirina.  105 

To  nicely-working  minds  a  pleasant  sense 
Of  order,  like  a  well-appointed  room, 
Where  one  may  see,  in  various  stuffs  and  wares, 
Forethoughts  of  color  brought  to  harmony  ; 
Strict  balancings  of  quantity  and  form  ; 
Flowers  in  the  centre,  and,  beside  the  grate, 
A  rack  for  shovel  and  tongs.     But  minds  like  these 
(Your  pardon,  love  !)  are  likely  to  arrange 
The  window-lights  to  save  the  furniture, 
And  spoil  the  pictures  on  the  wall.     And  you, 
In  the  adjustment  of  your  theory, 
Would  shut  the  light  from  her  whose  mind  informs 
Its  harmonies.     All  worship,  in  my  thought, 
Goes  hand  in  hand  with  love.     We  cannot  love, 
And  fail  to  worship  what  we  love.     While  you 
Worship  the  strength  and  courage  which  you  find 
In  him  who  has  your  heart,  he  bows  to  all 
Of  faith  and  sweetness  which  he  finds  in  you. 
If,  in  our  worship,  we  have  need  to  build 
Noblest  ideals,  taking  much  from  God 
With  which  to  make  them  perfect  in  our  eyes, 
Shall  God  mark  blame  ?     We  worship   him  the  while, 
In  attributes  his  own,  or  attributes 
With  which  our  thought  invests  him.    As  for  me — 
It  is  no  secret — I  am  what  you  call 
A  godless  man  ;    yet  what  is  worshipful, 
Or  seems  to  be  so,  that  with  all  my  heart 
5* 


io6  Kathrina. 

I  worship  ;    and  I  worship  while  I  love. 

You  deem  yourself  the  dwelling-place  of  God, 

And  keep  your  spirit  cleanly  for  his  feet. 

All  merit  you  abjure,  ascribing  all 

To  him  who  dwells  within  you.     How  can  you 

Forbid  that  I  fall  down  and  worship  you, 

When  what  I  find  to  worship  is  not  yours. 

But  God's  alone  ?     I  know  the  ecstasy 

Enlarges,  strengthens,  purifies  my  soul, 

And  blesses  me  with  peace.      My  love,  my  life, 

You  are  my  all.      I  have  no  other  good, 

And,  in  this  moment  of  my  happiness, 

I  ask  no  other." 

Tears  were  in  her  eyes, 

Her  clasped  hands  clinging  fondly  to  my  arm, 
While  under  droop  of  lashes  she  replied  : 
"  I  feel,  dear  Paul,  that  this  is  sophistry. 
It  does  not  touch  my  judgment  or  my  heart 
\Vith  motive  of  conviction.      In  what  way 
God  may  be  working  to  reclaim  your  will 
And  worship  to  himself,  I  cannot  know. 
If  through  your  love  for  me,  or  mine  for  you, 
Then,  as  his  grateful,  willing  instrument, 
I  yield  myself  to  him.     But  this  is  true  : 
God  is  not  worshipped  in  his  attributes. 
I  do  not  love  your  attributes,  but  you. 


KatJirina.  107 

Your  attributes  all  meet  me  otherwhere, 

Blended  in  other  personalities, 

Nor  do  I  love,  nor  do  I  worship  them, 

Or  those  who  bear  them.     E'en  the  spotted  pard 

Will  dare  a  danger  which  will  make  you  pale, 

But  shall  his  courage  steal  my  heart  from  you? 

You  cheat  your  conscience,  for  you  know  that  I 

May  like  your  attributes,  yet  love  not  you ; 

Nay,  worship  them  indeed,  despising  you. 

I  do  not  argue  this  to  damp  your  joy, 

But  make  it  rational.     If  you  presume 

Perfection  in  me, — if  you  lavish  all 

The  largess  of  your  worship  and  your  love 

On  me,  imposing  on  my  head  a  crown 

Stolen  from  God's,  there  surely  waits  your  heart 

The  pang  of  disappointment.     There  will  come 

A  sad,  sad  time,  when,  in  your  famished  soul, 

The  cry  for  something  more,  and  more  divine, 

Will  rise,  nor  be  repressed." 

There  is  a  charm 

In  earnestness,  when  it  inspires  the  lips 
Of  one  we  love,  that  spoils  their  argument, 
And  yields  so  much  of  pleasure  and  of  pride, 
That  the  conviction  which  they  seek  evades 
Their  eager  fingers,  and  with  throbbing  wings 
Crows  from  its  covert. 


loS  Kathrina. 

She  was  casuist, 

Cunning  and  clear  ;  and  I  was  proud  of  her  ; 
And  though  I  knew  that  she  had  swept  away 
My  refuges  of  lies  like  chaff,  and  proved 
My  fair  words  fustian,  I  was  moved  to  mirth 
Over  the  solemn  ruin.     Had  it  been 
A  decent  thing  to  do,  I  should  have  laughed 
Full  in  her  face  ;  but  knowing  that  her  words 
Were  offspring  of  her  conscience  and  her  love, 
I  could  no  less  than  hold  respectfully 
Her  earnest  warning. 

"  Well,  I'll  take  the  risk/* 

I  said.     "  While  you  shall  have  the  argument, 
I  will  have  you,  who,  on  the  whole,  I  like 
Better  than  that.     And  you  shall  have  your  way, 
And  I  my  own,  in  common  liberty, 
With  things  like  these.     You,  doubtless,  arc  to  me 
What  I  am  not  to  you.     We  are  unlike 
In  life  and  circumstance — alike  alone 
In  this  :  that  better  than  all  else  on  earth 
We  love  each  other.     This  is  basis  broad 
For  happiness,  or  broad  enough  for  me. 
If  you  build  better,  you  arc  fortunate, 
Ay,  fortunate  indeed  ;  and  some  fine  day 
We'll  talk  about  it.     Let  us  have  to-night 
Joy  in  our  new  possessions,  and  defer 


Kathrina.  109 

This  little  joust  of  wits  and  consciences 
To  more  convenient  season." 

We  had  reached 

The  cottage  door  at  this  ;  and  there  her  aunt 
Awaited  our  return.     So,  hand  in  hand, 
Assuming  show  of  rustic  bashfulness, 
We  paused  before  her,  and  with  bows  profound 
Made  our  obeisance. 

"Well?"   she  said  at  length; 
"  Well?— and  what  of  it?" 

"Are  you  not  surprised?" 
I  asked. 

"  Surprised,  indeed!     Surprised  at  what?" 

"  At  what  you  see  :    and  this!    and  this!"    I  said, 
Planting  a  kiss  upon  each  lovely  cheek 
Of  my  betrothed,  that  straightway  bloomed  with  rose. 
"  What!    are  you  blind,  my  aunt?" 

"  You  silly  fools  ! 

I've  seen  it  from  the  first,"  she  answered  me. 
"  No  doubt  you  thought  that  you  were  very  deep, 
Very  mysterious — all  that  sort  of  thing. 
I've  watched  you,  and  if  you,  young  man,  hrcl  been 


no  Kathrina. 

Aught  but  a  coward,  it  had  come  before, 
And  saved  some  sleep  o'  nights  to  both  of  you. 
But  down  upon  your  knees,  for  benison 
Of  one  who  loves  you  both." 

We  knelt,  and  then 

She  kissed  us,  leaving  on  our  cheeks  the  tears 
That  sprang  to  brim  the  moment.      Her  shrewd  eyes 
That  melted  in  the  sympathy  of  love, 
Would  not  meet  ours  again,  but  turned  away, 
And  sought  in  solitude  to  drain  themselves 
Of  their  strange  passion. 

God  forbid  that  I, 

With  weak  and  sacrilegious  lips,  betray 
The  confidence  of  love  ;    or  tear  aside 
The  secrecy  behind  whose  snowy  folds 
Honor  and  virgin  modesty  retire 
For  holiest  communion !     For  the  fire 
Which  burns  upon  that  altar  is  of  God. 
Its  tongues  of  flame,  throughout  all  time  and  space, 
Speak  but  one  language,  understood  by  all, 
But  sacred  ever  to  the  wedded  hearts 
That  listen  to  their  breathings. 

In  the  deep  hours  of  nighl 
I  left  the  cottage,  brain  and  heart  o'erfilled 


Kathrina.  ill 

With  the  ethereal  vintage  I  ha^l  quaffed. 
Disturbing  not  the  drowsy  ferryman, 
I  slipped  his  little  wherry  from  the  sand, 
And  in  the  star-sprent  river  lipped  the  oars 
That  pulled  me  homeward.     The  enchanting  tide- 
Was  smooth  continuation  of  the  dream 
On  which  my  spirit,  holily  afloat, 
Had  glided  through  long  hours  of  happiness. 
Earth,  by  the  strange,  delicious  ecstasy, 
Was  changed  to  paradise  ;    and  something  kin 
To  gratitude  arose  within  my  soul — 
A  fleeting  passion,  dying  all  too  soon, 
Lacking  the  root  which  faith  alone  can  feed. 

I  touched  the  shore  ;    but  when  my  hasting  feet 
Started  the  homeward  walk,  there  came  a  change. 
Down  from  the  quiet  stars  there  fell  a  voice, 
Heard  in  the  innermost,  that  troubled  me  : 
"She  ,'s  not  more  than  you:    why  worship  her? 
And  she  will  die  :    what  will  remain  for  you  ? 
You  may  die  first,  indeed  :    then  what  resource  ? 
You  have  no  sympathy  with  her  in  things 
Ordained  within  her  conscience  and  her  life 
The  things  supreme  :    can  there  be  marriage  thus  r 
Is  e'en  such  bliss  as  may  be  possible 
Sure  to  be  yours  ?     Fate  has  a  thousand  hands 
To  dash  your  lifted  cup." 


112  Kathrina. 

With  thoughts  like  these. 
A  vague  uneasiness  invaded  me, 
And  toned  the  triumph  of  my  passion,  till, 
Almost  in  anger,  I  exclaimed  at  last  : 
"'  This  is  reaction.     I  have  flown  too  high 
Above  the  healthy  level,  and  I  feel 
The  press  of  denser  air.     The  equipoise 
Of  circumstance  and  feeling  will  be  reached 
All  in  good  time.     Rest  and  to-morrow's  sun 
Will  bring  the  remedy,  and,  with  the  mists, 
This  cloud  will  pass  away." 

Then  with  clenched  hands 
I  swore  I  would  be  happy, — that  my  soul 
Should  find  its  satisfaction  in  her  love  ; 
And  that,  if  there  should  ever  come  a  time 
Of  cold  satiety,  or  I  should  find 

Weakness  or  fault  where  I  had  thought  was  strength 
And  full  perfection,   I  would  e'en  endow 
Her  poverty  with  all  the  hoarded  wealth 
Of  my  imagination,  making  her 
The  woman  of  my  want,  in  plenitude 
Of  strength  and  loveliness. 

The  breezy  days 

Over  whose  waves  my  buoyant  life  careered, 
Rolled  to  October,  falling  on  its  beach 


Kathrina.  1 1 3 

With  bursts  of  mellow  music ;  and  I  leaped 
Upon  the  longed-for  shore  ;  for,  in  that  month, 
My  dear  betrothed,  deferring  to  the  stress 
Of.  my  impatient  wish,  had  promised  me 
Her  hand  in  wedlock. 

Ere  the  happy  day 

Dawned  on  the  world,  the  world  was  draped  in  robes 
Meet  for  the  nuptials.     Baths  of  sunny  haze, 
Steeping  the  ripened  leaves  from  day  to  day, 
And  dainty  kisses  of  the  frost  at  night, 
Joined  in  the  subtile  alchemy  that  wrought 
Such  miracles  of  change,  that  myriad  trees 
Which  pranked  the  meads  and  clothed  the  forest  glooms 
Bloomed  with  the  tints  of  Eden.     Had  the  earth 
Been  splashed  with  blood  of  grapes  from  every  clime, 
Tinted  from  topaz  to  dim  carbuncle, 
Or  orient  ruby,  it  would  not  have  been 
Drenched  with  such  waste  of  color.     All  the  hues 
The  rainbow  knows,  and  all  that  meet  the  eye 
In  flowers  of  field  and  garden,  joined  to  tell 
Each  tree's  close-folded  secret.     Side  by  side 
Rose  sister  maples,  some  in  amber  gold, 
Others  incarnadine  or  tipped  with  flame  ; 
And  oaks  that  for  a  hundred  years  had  stood, 
And  flouted  one  another  through  the  storms — 
Boasting  their  might — proclaimed  their  pique  or  prida 


1 1 4  Kathrina. 

In  dun,  or  dyes  of  Tyre.     The  sumac-leaves 

Blazed  with  such  scarlet  that  the  crimson  fruit 

Which  hung  among  their  flames  was  touched  to  guisi 

Of  dim  and. dying  embers;  while  the  hills 

That  met  the  sky  at  the  horizon's  rim — 

Dabbled  with  rose  among  the  evergreens, 

Or  stretching  off  in  sweeps  of  clouted  crimson — glowed 

As  if  the  archery  of  sunset  clouds,          . 

By  squads  and  fierce  battalions,  had  rained  down 

Its  barbed  and  feathered  fire,  and  left  it  fast 

To  advertise  th'  exploit. 

In  such  pomp 

Of  autumn  glory,  by  the  simplest  rites, 
Kathrina  gave  her  hand  to  me,  and  I 
Pledged  truth  and  life  to  her.      I  bore  her  home 
Through  shocks  of  maize,  revealing  half  their  gold; 
Past  gazing  harvesters  with  creaking  wains 
That  brimmed  with  fruitage — my  adored,  my  wife, 
Fruition  of  my  hope — the  proudest  freight 
That  ever  passed  that  way  I 

My  troops  of  friends,     - 

Grown  strangely  warm  and  strangely  numerous 
With  scent  of  novelty  and  pleasant  cheer, 
Assisted  me  to  place  upon  her  throne 
My  household  queen.     Right  royally  she  sat 


KatJirina.  1 1 S 

The  new-born  dignity.     Most  graciously 
She  spoke  and  smiled  among  the  silken  clouds 
That,  fold  on  perfumed  fold,  like  frankincense 
Enveloped  her,  through  "half  the  festal  night, 
With  welcome  and  good  wishes.     I  was  proud  ; 
For  was  not  I  a  king  where  she  was  queen  ? 
And  queen  she  was — though  consort  in  my  horne^, 
Queen  regnant  in  the  realm  of  womanhood, 
By  right  of  every  charm. 

Into  her  place, 

As  mistress  of  all  home  economies, 
She  slid  without  a  jar,  as  if  the  Fates, 
By  concert  of  foreordinate  design, 
Had  fitted  her  for  it,  and  it  for  her, 
And,  having  joined  them  well,  were  satisfied. 
Obedient  to  the  orbit  of  our  love, 
We  came  and  went,  revolving  round  our  home 
In  spheral  harmony — twin  stars  made  one, 
And  loyal  to  one  law. 

When  at  our  board, 
All  viands  lifted  by  her  hand  became 
Ambrosial  ;    and  her  light,  elastic  step 
From  room  to  room,  in  busy  household  cares, 
Timed  with  my  heart,  and  filled  me  with  a  sense 
Of  harmony  and  peace.     Days,  weeks,  and  months 


Il6  Kathrina. 

Lapsed  like  soft  measures,  rhyming  each  with  each. 
All  charged  with  thoughtful  ministries  to  me, 
And  not  to  me  alone  ;    for  I  was  proud 
To  know  that  she  was  counted  by  the  good 
A.S  a  good  power  among  them, — by  the  poor, 
As  angel  sent  of  God,  on  whom  they  called 
His  blessing  down. 

She  held  her  separate  life 

Of  prayer  and  Christian  service,  without  show 
Of  sanctity,  without  obtrusivcncss  ; 
And,  though  I  could  but  know  she  never  sought 
A  blessing  for  herself,  forgetting  me 
In  her  petition,  not  in  all  those  months 
Did  word  of  difference  betray  the  gulf 
Between  our  souls  and  lives.     She  had  her  plan : 
I  guessed  it,  and  respected  it.     She  felt 
That  if  her  life  were  not  an  argument 
To  move  me,  nothing  that  her  lips  might  say 
Could  win  me  to  her  wish.     Pride  would  repel 
What  it  could  not  refute,  and  pleasantry 
Parry  the  thrusts  that  love  could  not  resent. 

A  whole  year  sped,  yet  not  a  line  of  verse 
Had  grown  beneath  my  pen.     When  I  essayed 
To  brace  my  powers  to  effort,  and  to  call 
Forth  from  their  camp  and  covert  the  bright  ranks 


Kathrina. 

Of  tuneful  numbers,  no  responsive  shout 
Answered  the  bugle-blast,  and  from  my  hand- 
Irresolute  and  nerveless  as  a  babe's — • 
My  falchion  fell. 

She  rallied  me  on  this  ; 

But  I  had  nought  to  say,  save  this,  perhaps  : 
That  she,  being  all  my  world,  had  left  no  room 
For  other  occupation  than  my  love. 
She  did  not  smile  at  this  :  it  was  no  jest, 
But  saddest  truth.     I  had  grown  enervate 
In  the  warm  atmosphere  which  I  had  breathed  ; 
And  this,  with  consciousness  that  in  her  soul — 
As  warm  with  love  as  mine — each  gentle  power 
Was  kindling  with  new  life  from  day  to  day, 
Growing  with  my  decline. 

Well,  in  good  time, 

There  came  to  us  a  child,  the  miniature 
Of  her  on  whose  dear  breast  my  babyhood 
Wras  nursed  and  cradled  ;  and  my  happy  heart. 
Charged  with  a  double  tenderness,  received 
And  blessed  the  precious  gift.     Another  fount 
Of  human  love  gurgled  to  meet  my  lips. 
Another  store  of  good,  as  rich  and  pure, 
In  its  own  kind,  as  that  from  which  I  drank, 
\Vas  thus  discovered  to  my  taste,  and  I 
I  easted  upon  its  fulness. 


1 1 8  Kathrina. 

With  the  gift 

That  brimmed  my  cup  of  joy,  there  came  a  grace 
To  her  who  bore  it  of  fresh  loveliness. 
If  i  had  loved  the  maiden  and  the  bride, 
The  mother,  through  whose  pain  my  heart  had  \son 
Its  new  possession,  fastened  to  my  heart 
With  a  new  sympathy.     Whatever  dross 
Our  months  of  intimacy  had  betrayed 
Within  her  character,  was  purged  away, 
And  she  was  left  pure  gold.     Nay,  I  should  say, 
Whatever  goodness  had  not  been  revealed 
Through  the  relations  of  her  heart  to  mine 
As  loving  maid  and  mistress,  found  the  light 
Through  her  maternity.     A  heavenly  change 
Passed  o'er  her  soul  and  o'er  her  pallid  face, 
As  if  the  unconscious  yearning  of  a  life 
Had  found  full  satisfaction  in  the  birth 
Of  the  new  being.     Her  long  weariness 
Was  but  a  trance  of  peace  and  gratitude  ; 
And  as  she  lay — her  babe  upon  her  breast, 
Her  eyelids  closed — I  could  but  feel  that  heaven, 
Should  it  hold  all  the  good  of  which  she  dreamcJ 
Had  little  more  for  her. 

And  when  again 

She  moved  about  the  house,  in  ministry 
To  me  and  to  her  helpless  child,   I  knew 


Kathrina.  Jig 

That  I  had  tasted  every  precious  good 

That  woman  bears  to  man.     Ay,  more  than  this  : 

That  not  one  man  in  thousands  had  received 

Such  largess  of  affection,  and  such  prize 

Of  womanhood,  as  I  had  found  in  her, 

And  made  my  own.     The  whole  enchanting  round 

Of  pure,  domestic  commerce  had  been  mine. 

A  lover  blest,  a  husband  satisfied, 

A  father  crowned  !     Love  had  no  other  boon 

To  offer  me,  and  held  within  its  gift 

No  other  title. 

Thus,  within  the  space 

Of  two  swift  years,   I  traversed  the  domain 
Of  novelty,  and  learned  that  I  must  glean 
The  garnered  fields  of  my  experience 
To  gratify  the  greed  that  still  possessed 
My  sateless  heart.     The  time  had  come  to  me— • 
Which  I  had  half  foreseen — when,  by  my  will2 
My  interest  in  those  I  loved  should  live 
Predominant  in  all  my  life.     I  nursed 
With  jealous  care  my  passion  for  my  wife. 
I  raised  her  to  an  apotheosis 
In  my  imagination,  where  I  bowed 
And  paid  my  constant  homage.     I  was  still 
Her  fond  and  loyal  lover  ;  but  my  heart, 
That  had  so  freely  drunk,  with  full  content, 


1 20  Kathrina. 

Had  seen  the  bottom  of  the  cup  she  held  ; 
And  what  remained  but  tricks  to  eke  it  out, 
And  artifice  to  give  it  piquancy, 
And  sips  to  cool  my  tongue,  the  while  my  heart 
Was  hollow  with  its  thirst?     My  little  child 
Was  precious  to  my  soul  beyond  all  price  ; 
Mother  ana  babe  were  all  that  they  could  be 
To  any  heart  of  man  ;  and  yet — and  yet  ! 

Of  all  the  dull,  dead  weights  man  ever  bore, 
Sure,  none  can  wear  the  soul  with  discontent 
Like  consciousness  of  power  unused.     To  feel 
That  one  has  gift  to  move  the  multitude, — 
To  act  upon  the  life  of  humankind 
By  force  of  will,  or  fire  of  eloquence, 
Or  voice  of  lofty  art,  and  yet,  to  feel 
No  stir  of  mighty  motive  in  the  soul 
To  action  or  endeavor  ;  to  behold 
The  fairest  prizes  of  this  fleeting  life 
Borne  off  by  patient  men  who,  day  by  day, 
By  bravest  toil  and  struggle,  reach  the  heights 
Of  great  achievement,  toiling,  struggling  thus 
With  a  strong  joy,  and  with  a  fine  contempt 
For  soft  and  selfish  passion  ;  to  see   this, 
Yet  cling  to  such  a  passion,  like  a  slave 
Who  hugs  his  chains  in  sluggish  impotence, 
Refusing  freedom  lest  he  lose  the  crust 


Kathrina.  121 

The  chain  of  bondage  warrants  him — ah !  this 
Is  misery  indeed ! 

Such  misery 

Was  mine.     I  held  the  consciousness  of  power 
To  labor  even-headed  with  the  best 
Who  wrought  for  fame,  or  strove  to  make  themselves 
Felt  in  the  world's  great  life  ;  and  yet,  I  felt 
No  lift  to  enterprise,  from  heaven  above 
Or  earth  beneath  ;  for  neither  God  nor  man 
Lived  in  my  love.     My  home  held  all  my  world ; 
Yet  it  was  evident — I  felt,  I  knew — 
That  nought  could  fill  my  opening  want  but  toil ; 
And  there  were  times  when  I  had  hailed  with  joy 
The  curse  of  poverty,  compelling  me 
To  labor  for  my  bread,  and  for  the  bread 
Of  those  I  loved. 

My  neighbors  all  around 

Were  happy  in  their  work.     The  plodding  hind 
Who  served  my  hand,  or  groomed  my  petted  horse. 
Whistled  about  his  work  with  merry  heart, 
And  filled  his  measure  of  content  with  toil. 
In  all  the  streets  and  all  the  busy  fields, 
Men  were  astir,  and  doing  with  their  might 
What  their  hands  found  to  do.     They  drove  the  plough, 
They  trafficked,  builded,  delved,  they  spun  and  wove. 


1.22  Katlirina. 

They  taught  and  preached,  they  hasted  up  and  dow:i 

Each  on  his  little  errand,  and  their  eyes 

Were  full  of  eager  fire,  as  if  the  earth 

And  all  its  vast  concerns  were  on  their  hands. 

Their  homes  were  fresh  with  guerdon  every  night, 

And  ripe  with  impulse  to  new  industry 

At  each  new  dawn. 

I  saw  all  this,  but  knew 

That  they  were  not  like  me — were  most  unlike 
In  constitution  and  condition.     Thus, 
My  power  to  do,  and  do  the  single  thing 
My  power  was  shaped  to  do,  became,  instead 
Of  wings  to  bear  me,  weights  to  burden  me. 
The  moiling  multitude  for  little  tasks 
Found  little  motives  plenty  ;    but  for  me, 
Who  in  my  indolence  they  all  despised — 
Not  understanding  me— no  motive  rose 
To  lash  or  lead.     Even  the  )ove  I  dreamed 
Would  give  me  impulse  had  defrauded  me. 
Feeble  and  proud  ;    strong,  yet  emasculate  ; 
Centred  in  self,  and  still  despising  self; 
Goaded,  yet  held  ;   convinced,  but  never  moved  5 
Such  conflict  ofttimes  held  and  harried  me 
That  death  had  met  with  welcome.     If  I  read, 
I  read  to  kill  my  time.     No  interest 
In  the  great  thoughts  of  others  moved  my  soul, 


Kathrina.  123 

Because  I  had  no  object  ;    useless  quite 
The  knowledge  and  the  culture  I  possessed  ; 
And  if  I  rode,  the  stale  monotony 
Of  the  familiar  landscapes  sickened  me. 

• 

In  these  dull  years,  my  toddling  little  wean 

Grew  into  prattling  childhood,  and  I  gained 

Such  fresh  delight  from  her  as  kept  my  heart 

From  fatal  gloom  ;   but  more  and  more  I  shunned 

The  world  around  me,  more  and  more  drew  in 

The  circle  of  my  life,  until,  at  last, 

My  home  became  my  hermitage.     I  knew 

The  dissolution  of  the  spell  would  come, 

And,  though  I  dreaded  it,  I  longed  to  greet 

The  crash  and  transformation.     If  my  pride 

Forbade  the  full  confession   to  my  wife 

That  time  had  verified  her  prophecy, 

It  failed  to  hold  the  truth  from  her.     She  read, 

With  a  true  woman's  insight,  all  my  heart ; 

But  with  a  woman's  sensitiveness  shrank 

P'rom  questions  which  might  seem  to  carry  blarne  ', 

And  so,  for  years,  there  lay  between  our  souis 

The  bar  of  silence. 

• 

One  sweet  summer  eve, 
After  my  lamb  was  folded  and  before 
The  lamps  were  lighted,  as  I  sat  alone 


1 24  Katlirina. 

Within  my  room,  I  heard  reluctant  feet 

Seeking  my  door.     They  paused,  and  then  I  heard  : 

"  May  I  come  in  ?  " 

"  Ay,  you  may  always  come  ; 
And  you  are  welcome  always,"  I  replied. 

The  room  was  dim,  but  I  could  sec  her  face 

Was  pale,  and  her  long  lashes  wet.     "  Your  scat  "— 

I  said,  with  open  arms.     Upon  my  knee, 

One  hand  upon  my  shoulder,  she  sank  down 

As  if  the  heart  within  her  breast  were  lead, 

And  she  were  weary  with  its  weight. 

"  My  wife, 
What  burden  now  ?  "    I  asked  her  tenderly. 

She  fixed  her  swimming  eyes  on  mine,  and  said  : 
"  My  dear,  you  are  not  happy.     Years  have  gone 
Since  you  have  been  content.     I  bring  no  words 
Of  blame  against  you  :    you  have  been  to  me 
A  comfort  and  a  joy.     Your  constancy 
Has  honored  me  as  few  of  all  my  sex 
Are  honored  by  your  own  ;  but  while  you  pine 
With  secret  pain,  I  am  so  wholly  yours 
That  I  must  pine  with  you.     I've  waited  long 


KatJirina.  125 

For  you  to  speak  ;  and  now  I  come  to  you 
To  ask  you  this  one  question  :  Is  there  aught 
Of  toil  .or  sacrifice  within  my  power 
To  ease  your  heart,  or  give  you  liberty 
Beyond  the  round  to  which  you  hold  your  feet? 
Speak  freely,  frankly,  as  to  one  who  loves 
Her  husband  better  than  her  only  child, 
And  better  than  herself." 

I  drew  her  head 

Down  to  my  cheek,  and  said  :   "My  angel  wife! 
Whatever  torment  or  disquietude 
I  may  have  suffered,  you  have  never  been 
Its  cause,  or  its  occasion.     You  are  all — 
You  have  been  all — that  womanhood  can  be 
To  manhood's  want  ;  and  in  your  woman's  love 
And  woman's  pain,  I  have  found  every  good 
My  life  has  known  since  first  our  lives  were  joined* 
You  knew  me  better  than  I  knew  myself ; 
And  your  prophetic  words  have  haunted  me 
Like  thoughts  of  retribution  :  '  There  will  come 
'•  A  sad,  sad  time,  when  in  your  famished  soul 
'-  The  cry  for  something  more,  and  more  divine 
'  Will     rise,    nor     be    repressed.''       For     something 

more 

My  spirit  clamors  :  nothing  more  divine 
I  ask  for." 


1 26  Kathrina. 

"What  shall  be  this  'something  more'? 
"Work,"  I  replied;  "ay,  work,  but  never  here; 
Work  among  men,  where  I  may  feel  the  touch 
Of  kindred  life ;  work  where  the  multitudes 
Are  surging  ;  work  where  brains  and  hands 
Are  struggling  for  the  prizes  of  the  world  ; 
Work  where  my  spirit,  driven  to  its  bent 
By  competitions  and  grand  rivalries, 
Shall  vindicate  its  own  pre-eminence, 
And  wring  from  a  reluctant  world  the  meed 
Of  approbation  and  respect  for  which 
It  yearns  with  awful  hunger  ;  work,  indeed, 
Which  shall  compel  the  homage  of  the  souls 
That  creep  around  me  here,  and  pity  you 
Because,  forsooth,  the  Fates  have  hobbled  you 
With  a  dull  drone.     I  know  how  sweet  the  love 
Of  two  fond  souls  ;  and  I  will  have  the  hearts 
Of  millions.     These  shall  satisfy  my  greed, 
And  round  the  measure  of  my  life  ;  and  these 
My  work  shall  win  me." 

At  these  childish  words 

She  raised  her  head,  and  with  a  sweet,  sad  smile 
Of  love  and  pity  blent,  made  her  response  : 
"  Not  yet,  my  husband — if  your  wife  may  speak 
A  thought  that  crosses  yours — not  yet  have  you 
Found  the  great  secret  of  content.     But  work 


Kathrina.  127 

May  help  you  toward  it,  and  in  any  case 

Is  better  far  than  idleness.     For  this, 

You  ask  of  me  to  sacrifice  this  home 

And  all  the  truest  friends  my  life  has  gained. 

I  do  it  from  this  moment  ;  glad  to  prove, 

At  any  tender  cost,  my  love  for  you, 

And  faith  in  your  endeavor.     I  will  go 

To  any  spot  of  earth  where  you  may  lead, 

And  go  rejoicing.      Let  us  go  at  once  !  " 

"  I  burn  my  ships  behind  me,"  I  replied. 

"  Measure  the  cost  :  be  sure  no  secret  hope 

Of  late  return  be  found  among  the  flames ; 

For,  if  I  go,  I  leave  no  single  thread, 

Save  that  which  binds  me  to  my  mother's  grave. 

To  draw  me  back." 

"  My  love  shall  be  the  torch 
To  light  the  fire,"  she  answered. 

Then  we  rose; 

And,  with  a  kiss,  marked  a  full  period 
To  love's  excess,  and  with  a  sweet  embrace 
Wrote  the  initial  of  a  stronger  life,, 


A   REFLECTION. 

OH  I    aot  by  bread  alone  is  manhood  nourished 

To  its  supreme  estate  ! 
By  every  word  of  God  have  lived  and  flourished 

The  good  men  and  the  great. 
Ay,  not  by  bread  alone ! 


Oh!  not  by  bread  alone!"  the  sweet  rose,  breathing 

In  throbs  of  perfume,  speaks  ; 
But  myriad  hands,  in  earth  and  air,  are  wreathing 

The  blushes  for  my  cheeks. 
Ay,  not  by  bread  alone  !  " 


'^  Oh  !  not  by  bread  alone !  "  proclaims  in  thunder 

The  old  oak  from  his  crest ; 
"  But  suns  and  storms  upon  me,  and  deep  under, 

The  rocks  in  which  I  rest. 
Ay,  not  by  bread  alone  ! " 


Kathrina.  129 

'"Oh!  not  by  bread  alone!"     The  truth  flics  singing 

In  voices  .of  the  birds ; 
And  from  a  thousand  pastured  hills  is  ringing 

The  answer  of  the  herds  : 
"  Ay,  not  by  bread  alone !  " 


Oh !   not  by  bread  alone !    for  life  and  being 

Are  finely  complex  all, 
And  increment,  with  element  agreeing, 

Must  feed  them,  or  they  fall. 
Ay,  not  by  bread  alone ! 


Oh  !    not  by  love  alone,  though  strongest,  purest, 

That  ever  swayed  the  heart ; 
For  strongest  passion  evermore  the  surest 

Defrauds  each  manly  part. 
Ay,  not  by  love  alone ! 


Oh !    not  by  love  alone  is  power  engendered. 

Until  within  the  soul 
The  gift  of  every  motive  has  been  rendered. 

It  is  not  strong  and  whole. 

Ay,  not  by  love  alone  1 
6* 


130  Kathrina. 

Oh !   not  by  love  alone  is  manhood  nourished 

To  its  supreme  estate  : 
By  every  word  of  God  have  lived  and  flourished 

The  good  men  and  the  great. 
Ay,  not  by  love  alone  1 


PART  III. 

LABOR. 

TEN  years  of  love ! — a  sleep,  a  pleasant  dream 
That  passed  its  culmen  in  the  early  half, 
Concluding  in  confusion — a  wild  scene 
Of  bargains,  auctions,  partings,  and  what  not  ?— • 
And  an  awaking ! 

I  was  in  Broadway, 
A  unit  in  a  million.     Like  a  bath 
In  ocean  surf,  blown  in  from  farthest  seas 
Under  the  August  ardors,  the  grand  rush 
Of  crested  life  assailed  me  with  its  waves, 
And  cooled  me  while  it  fired.     With  sturdy  joy 
I  sought  its  broadest  billows,  and  resigned 
My  spirit  to  their  surge  and  sway ;    or  stood 
In  sheltered  coves,  reached  only  by  the  spume 
And  crepitant  bubbles  of  the  yesty  floods, 
Drinking  the  roar,  the  sheen,  the  restlessness, 
As  inspiration,  both  of  sense  and  soul. 


1 32  Kathrina. 

I  saw  the  waves  of  life  roll  up  the  steps 

Of  great  cathedrals  and  retire  ;    and  break 

In  charioted  grandeur  at  the  feet 

Of  marble  palaces,  and  toss  their  spray 

Of  feathered  beauty  through  the  open  doors, 

To  pile  the  restless  foam  within  ;    and  burst 

On  crowded  caravansaries,  to  fall 

In  quick  return  ;    and  in  dark  currents  glide 

Through  sinuous  alleys  and  the  grimy  loops 

Of  reeking  cellars ;    and  with  softest  plash 

Assail  the  gilded  shrines  of  opulence, 

And  slide  in  musical  relapse  away. 

With  senses  dazed  and  stunned,  and  soul  o'erfilled 
With  chaos  of  new  thoughts,  I  turned  away, 
And  sought  my  city  home.     There  all  was  calm, 
With  wife  and  daughter  waiting  my  return, 
And  eager  with  their  welcome.     That  was  life  ! — 
An  interest  in  the  great  world  of  life, 
A  place  for  toil  within  a  world  of  toil, 
And  love  for  its  reward.     "Amen!"    I  said, 
"  And  twice  amen!     I've  found  my  life  z\  last, 
And  we  will  all  be  happy." 

Day  by  day- 

The  while  I  sought  adjustment  to  the  life 
Which  I  had  chosen,  and  with  careful  thought 


Kathrina.  133 

Gathe/'ed  to  hand  the  fair  material 
Elect  by  Fancy  for  the  organism 
Over  whose  germ  she  brooded — I  went  out, 
To.  bathe  again  upon  the  shore  of  life 
My  long-enfeebled  nature. 

Every  day 

I  met  some  face  I  knew.     My  college  friends 
Came  up  in  strange  disguises.     Here  was  one, 
With  a  white  neck-cloth  and  a  saintly  face, 
Who  had  been  rusticated  and  disgraced 
For  lawlessness.     Now  he  administered 
A  charge  which  proved  that  he  had  been  at  work, 
And  made  himself  a  man.     And  there  was  one — 
A  lumpy  sort  of  boy,  as  memory 
Recalled  him  to  me — grown  to  portliness 
And  splendid  spectacles.     He  drove  a  chaise, 
And  practised  surgery, — was  on  his  way 
To  meet  a  class  of  youth,  who  sought  to  be 
Great  surgeons  like  himself,  and  took  full  notes 
Of  all  his  stolen  wisdom.     By  his  watch — 
A  golc1  repeater,  with  a  mighty  chain — 
He  gave  me  just  five  minutes  ;    then  rolled  off-— 
Pretension  upon  wheels.     Another  grasped 
My  hand  as  if  I  were  his  bosom  friend, 
Just  in  from  a  long  voyage.     He  was  one 
Who  stole  my  wood  in  college,  and  received 


1 34  Kathrina. 

With  grace  the  kick  I  gave  him.     He  had  grown 

To  be  the  tail  of  a  portentous  firm 

Of  city  lawyers  :   managed,  as  he  said, 

The  matter  of  collections  ;    and  had  made 

In  his  small  way — to  use  his  modest  phrase, 

Truthful  as  modest — quite  a  pretty  plum. 

He  was  o'erjoyed  to  see  me  in  the  town  : 

Hoped  I  would  call  upon  him  at  his  den  : 

If  I  had  any  business  in  his  line, 

Would  do  it  for  me  promptly  ;    as  for  price, 

No  need  to  talk  of  that  between  two  friends  1 

But  these,  and  all — the  meanest  and  the  best — 

Were  hard  at  work.     They  always  questioned  me 

Before  we  parted,  touching  my  pursuits  ; 

And  though  they  questioned  kindly,  I  grew  sore 

Under  the  repetition,  and  ashamed 

To  iterate  my  answer,  till  I  burned 

To  do  some  work,  so  lifted  into  fame, 

That  shame  should  be  to  him  whose  ignorance 

Compelled  a  question. 

Simplest  foresters 

Have  learned  the  trick  of  woodland  broods,  that  fly 
In  radiant  divergence  from  the  flash 
Of  death  and  danger,  and,  when  all  is  still, 
Steal  back  to  where  their  fellows  bit  the  dust 


Kathrina.  135 

For  rendezvous.     And  thus  society 

Follows  the  brutal  instinct.     When  the  friends, 

Who  from  her  father's  ruin  fled  amain, 

Found  out  my  wife,  and  learned  that  it  was  safe 

To  gather  back  to  the  old  feeding-ground, 

They  came.     Her  old  home  had  become  my  own 

And  they  were  all  delighted.     It  was  sweet 

To  have  her  back  again ;    and  it  was  sad 

To  know  that  those  who  once  were  happy  there, 

Dispensing  happiness,  could  come  no  more. 

It  had  its  modicum  of  earnestness, — 
This  talk  of  their's — and  she  received  it  all 
With  hearty  courtesy,  and  yielded  it 
The  unction  of  her  charity,  so  far 
That  it  was  smooth  and  redolent  to  her. 
The  difference — the  world-wide  difference — 
Between  my  wife  and  them  was  obvious  ; 
But  she  was  generous  through  nature's  gift 
I  fancied — could  not  well  be  otherwise ; 
Although  their  fawning  filled  me  with  disgust. 
Oh  !    fool  and  blind  !    not  to  perceive  the  Christ 
That  shone  and  spoke  in  her ! 

The  hour  approached— 

The  predetermined  time — when  I  should  close 
My  study  door,  and  wrap  my  kindling  brain 


1 36  Kathrina. 

In  the  poetic  dream  which,  day  by  day, 
Was  gathering  consistence  in  my  brain. 
The  quick,  creative  instinct  in  me  plumed 
Its  pinions  for  the  flight,  and  I  could  feel 
The  influx  of  fresh  power  ;  but  whence  it 
I  did  not  question ;  though  it  fired  my  heart 
With  the  assurance  of  success. 

I  told 

My  dear  companion  of  my  hopeful  plans 
For  winning  fame,  and  making  for  myself 
A  lofty  place  ;  but  I  could  not  inspire 
Her  heart  with  my  ambition,  or  win  o'er 
Her  judgment  to  my  motive.     She  adhered 
To  her  old  theory,  and  gave  no  room 
To  any  motive  it  did  not  embrace. 
We  argued  much,  but  always  argued  wide, 
And  ended  where  we  started.     Postulates 
On  which  we  stood  in  perfect  harmony, 
Were  points  of  separation,  out  from  which 
We  struck  divergently,  till  sympathy, 
That  only  lives  by  rhythm  of  thoughts  and  hearts, 
Lay  dead  between  us. 

"  Man  loves  praise,"  I  said 
"  It  is  an  appetence  which  He  who  made 
The  human  soul,  made  to  be  satisfied. 


KatJirina.  137 

It  is  a  tree  He  planted.     If  it  grow 

On  that  which  feeds  it,  and  become  at  last 

Thrifty  and  fruitful,  it  is  still  His  own, 

With  usury.     And  if,  in  His  intent, 

This  passion  have  no  place  among  the  powers 

Of  active  life,  why  is  it  mighty  there 

From  youngest  childhood  ?     Pray  you  what  is  fame 

But  concrete  praise  ? — the  universal  voice 

Which  bears,  from  every  quarter  of  the  earth. 

Its  homage  to  a  name,  that  grows  thereby 

To  be  its  own  immortal  monument 

Outlasting  all  the  marble  and  the  bronze 

Which  cunning  fingers,  since  the  world  began, 

Have  shaped  or  stamped  with  story  ?     What  is  fame 

But  aggregate  of  praise  ?     And  if  it  be 

Legitimate  to  win,  for  sake  of  praise, 

The  praise  of  one,  why  not  of  multitudes  ?  " 

"  Av,"  she  replied;  "'tis  true  that  men  love  praise 

And  it  is  true  that  He  who  made  the  soul 

Planted  therein  the  love  of  praise,  to  be 

A  motive  in  its  life — all  true  so  far ;; 

And  so  far  we  agree.     But  motives  all 

Have  their  appropriate  sphere  and  sway,  like  men 

Who  bear  them  in  their  breasts.     The  love  of  praise 

Fills  life  with  fine  amenities.     Not  all 

Who  live  have  pleasant  tempers,  and  not  all 


1 38  Kathrina. 

The  gift  of  gracious  manners,  or  the  love 

Of  nobler  motive,  higher  meed  than  praise. 

The  world  is  full  of  bears,  who  smooth  their  hair, 

And  glove  their  paws,  and  put  on  manlv  airs, 

And  hold  our  honey  sacred,  and  our  lives 

Our  own,  because  they  hunger  for  our  nraise. 

'Tis  a  fine  thing  for  bears — this  love  of  praise — 

And  those  who  deal  with  them  ;  and  a  good  thing 

For  children,  and  for  parents,  teachers — ail 

Who  have  them  in  their  keeping.     It  may  hold 

A  little  mind  to  rectitude,  until 

It  grow,  and  grow  ashamed  to  yield  itself 

To  such  a  petty  motive.     Children  all 

Like  sugar,  and  it  may  admit  of  doubt 

Whether  our  praise  or  sugar  sweetens  more 

Their  petulant  sub-acids  ;  but  a  man 

Would  choke  in  swallowing  the  compliment 

Which  we  should  pay  him,  were  we  but  to  say 

'  Go    to !       Do    some    great    deed,    and    you    shall 

have 

Your  pay  in  sugar  :  —  maple,  mind  you,  now, 
So  you  shall  do  it  featly.' " 

"  Very  good  !  " 

I  answered,  "  very  good,  indeed  !  if  we 
Engage  in  talk  for  sport  ;  but  argument 
On  themes  like  these  must  have  the  element 


Kathrina.  139 

Of  candor.     Highest  truth,  in  certain  lights, 
May  be  ridiculous,  and  yet  be  truth. 
Women  are  angels  :   just  a  little  weak 
And  just  a  little  wicked,  it  may  be, 
Yet  still  the  sweetest  beings  in  the  world  ; 
But  when  one  stands  with  apprehensive  gasp 
At  verge  of  sternutation,  or  leaps  off, 
Projecting  all  her  being  in  a  sneeze, 
Or  snores  with  lips  wide-parted,  or  essays 
The  '  double-quick,'  we  turn  our  eyes  away 
In  sadness,  that  a  creature  so  divine 
Can  be  so  shockingly  ridiculous  ; 
Yet  who  shall  say  she's  not  an  angel  still  ? 
Now  you  present  to  me  the  meanest  face 
Of  a  most  noble  truth.      I  laugh  with  you 
Over  its  sorry  semblance  ;    but  the  truth 
Is  still  divine,  and  claims  our  reverence. 
The  great  King  Solomon — and  you  believe 
In  Solomon — has  said  that  a  good  name 
Is  more  to  be  desired  than  much  fine  gold. 
If  a  good  name  be  matter  of  desire 
Beyond  all  wealth — and  you  will  pardon  me 
For  holding  to  the  record  — it  may  stand 
As  a  grand  motive  in  the  life  of  man, 
To  grand  endeavor.     I  have  yet  to  learn 
That  Solomon  addressed  his  words  to  bears, 
Or  little  children.      I  am  forced  to  think 


140  KatJinna. 

That  you  and  I,  and  all  who  read  his  words, 
Are  those  for  whom  he  wrote." 

Rejoining  she : 

"  A  good  may  be  the  subject  of  desire, 
And  not  be  motive  to  achievement.     Life, 
If  I  may  speak  the  riddle,  is  a  scheme 
Of  indirections.     My  own  happiness 
Is  something  to  desire  ;    and  yet,  I  know 
That  I  must  win  it  by  forgetting  it 
In  ministry  to  others.     If  I  make 
My  happiness  the  motive  of  my  work, 
I  spoil  it  by  the  taint  of  selfishness. 
But  are  you  sure  that  you  do  not  presume 
Somewhat  too  much,  in  claiming  the  desire 
For  a  good  name  as  motive  of  your  life  ? 
Greatness,  not  goodness,  is  the  end  you  seek, 
If  I  mistake  you  not  ;    and  these  are  held, 
In  the  world's  thought,  as  two,  and  most  distinct. 
King  Solomon  was  wise,  but  wiser  He 
Who  said  to  those  who  loved  and  followed  him, 
'  Who  would  be  great  among  you,  let  him  serve.' 
The  greatest  men — and  artists  should  be  such, 
For  they  are  God's  nobility  and  man's — 
Should  work  from  greatest  motives.     Selfishness 
Is  never  great,  and  moves  to  no  great  deeds. 
To  honor  God,  to  benefit  mankind, 


Katlirina.  141 

To  serve  with  lofty  gifts  the  lowly  needs 
Of  the  poor  race  for  which  the  God-man  died, 
And  do  it  all  for  love — oh !    this  is  great ! 
And  he  who  does  this  will  achieve  a  name 
Not  only  great  but  good." 

"  Not  in  this  world," 

I  answered  her.     "  I  know  too  much  of  it. 
The  world  is  selfish  ;  and  it  never  gives 
Due  credit  to  a  motive  which  assumes 
To  be  above  its  own.     If  a  man  write, 
It  takes  for  granted  that  he  writes  for  fame, 
And  judges  him  accordingly.     It  holds 
Of  no  account  all  other  aims  and  ends ; 
And  visits  with  contempt  the  man  who  bears 
A  mission  to  his  kind.     The  critic  pens 
That  twiddle  with  his  work,  or  play  with  it 
As  cats  with  mice,  are  not  remarkable 
For  gentle  instincts  ;  and  my  name  must  live 
By  pens  like  these.     I  choose  to  take  the  world 
Just  as  I  find  it,  and  I  pitch  my  tune 
To  the  world's  key,  that  it  may  sing  my  tune. 
And  sing  for  me.     Ay,  and  I  take  myself 
Just  as  I  find  myself.     I  do  not  love 
The  human  race  enough  to  work  for  it. 
Having  no  motive  of  philanthropy, 
I'll  make  pretence  to  none.     The  love  of  praise 


142  KatJirina. 

I  count  legitimate  and  laudable. 
'Tis  not  the  noblest  motive  in  the  world, 
But  it  is  good  ;  and  it  has  won  more  fames 
Than  any  other.     Surely,  my  good  wife, 
You  would  not  shut  me  from  it,  and  deprive 
My  power  of  its  sole  impulse." 

"  No  ;  oh  !   no," 

She  answered  quickly.     "  I  am  only  sad 
That  it  should  be  the  captain  of  your  host. 
All  creatures  of  the  brain  are  the  result 
Of  many  motives  and  of  many  powers. 
All  life  is  such,  indeed.     The  power  that  leads— 
The  motive  dominant — this  stamps  the  work 
With  its  own  likeness.     Throughout  all  the  world 
Are  careful  souls,  with  careful  consciences, 
That  pierce  themselves  with  questionings  and  fears 
Because  that,  with  the  motives  which  are  good, 
And  which  alone  they  seek,  a  hundred  come 
They  do  not  seek,  and  aye  sophisticate 
Their  finest  action.     They  are  wrong  in  this  : 
All  motives  bowing  to  one  leadership, 
And  aiding  its  emprise,  are  one  .with  it — 
The  same  in  trend,  the  same  in  terminus. 
All  the  low  motives  that  obey  the  law, 
And  aid  the  work,  of  one  above  them  all, 
Uo  holy  service,  and  fulfil  the  end 


Kathrina.  143 

For  which  they  were  designed.     The  love  of  praise 

Is  not  the  lowest  motive  which  can  move 

The  human  soul.      Nay,  it  may  do  good  work 

As  a  subordinate,  and  leave  no  soil 

On  whitest  fabric,  at  whose  selvage  shines 

The  Master's  broidered  signature.     Although 

You  write  for  fame,  think  not  you  will  escape 

The  press  of  other  motives.     You  love  me  ; 

You  love  your  child  ;   you  love  your  pleasant  home ; 

You  love  the  memory  of  one  long  dead. 

These,  joined  with  all  those  qualities  of  heart 

Which  make  j'ou  dear  to  me,  will  throng  around 

The  leader  you  appoint,  and  come  and  go 

Under  his  banner  ;  and  the  work  of  God 

Will  thrive  through  these,  the  while  your  own  goes  on 

God  will  not  be  defrauded,  nor  yet  man  ; 

And  you,  who  like  the  Pharisees  make  prayer 

At  corners  of  the  streets,  for  praise  of  men, 

Will  have  reward  you  seek." 

"  Ay,  verily  !" 

Responded  I  with  laughter.     "  Verily  ! 
Though  not  a  saint,  I'll  do  a  saintly  work 
For  my  cwn  profit,  and  in  spite  of  all 
The  selfishness  that  moves  me.     Better,  this, 
Than  I  suspected.     My  sweet  casuist — 
My  gentle,  learned,  lovely  casuist — 


1 44  Kathrina. 

I  thank  you  ;   and  I'll  pay  you  more  than  thanks. 
I'll  promise  that  when  these  fine  motives  come, 
And  volunteer  their  service,  they  shall  find 
Welcome  and  entertainment,  and  a  place 
Within  the  rank  and  file,  with  privilege 
Of  quick  promotion,  so  they  show  themselves 
Motives  of  mettle." 

This  the  type  of  talk 

That  passed  between  us.     I  was  not  a  fool 
To  count  her  wisdom  worthless  ;    nor  a  God, 
To  work  regeneration  in  myself. 
That  something  which  I  longed  for,  to  fill  up 
The  measure  of  my  good,  was  human  praise ; 
Yet  I  could  see  that  she  was  wholly  right, 
And  that  she  held  within  herself  resource 
Of  satisfaction  better  than  my  own. 
But  I  was  quite  content — content  to  know 
I  trod  the  average  altitude  of  those 
Within  the  paths  of  art,  and  had  no  aims 
To  be  misconstrued  or  misunderstood 
By  Pride  and  Selfishness — that  these,  in  truth, 
Expected  of  me  what  I  had  to  give. 

Strange,  how  a  man  may  carry  in  his  heart, 
From  year  to  year — through  all  his  life,  indeed— 
A  truth,  or  a  conviction,  which  shall  be 


Kathrina.  145 

No  more  a  part  of  it,  and  no  more  worth 

Than  to  his  flask  the  cork  that  slips  within  ! 

Of  this  he  learns  by  sourness  of  his  wine, 

Of  muddle  of  its  color  ;    by  the  bits 

That  vex  his  lips  while  drinking  ;    but  he  feels 

No  impulse  in  his  hand  to  draw  it  forth, 

And  bid  it  crown  and  keep  the  draught  it  spoils, 

I  write  this,  here,  not  for  its  relevance 
To  this  one  passage  of  my  story,  but 
Because  there  slipped  into  my  consciousness 
Just  at  this  juncture,  and  would  not  depart, 
A  truth  I  carried  there  for  many  years, 
Each  minute  seeing,  feeling,  tasting  it, 
Yet  never  touching  it  with  an  attempt 
To  draw  it  forth,  and  put  it  to  its  place. 

One  evening,  when  our  usual  theme  was  up, 
I  asked  my  wife  in  playful  earnestness 
How  she  became  so  wise.     "  You  talk,"  I  said5 
"  Like  one  who  has  survived  a  thousand  years, 
And  drunk  the  wisdom  of  a  thousand  lives.  ' 

"  Who  lacketh  wisdom,  let  him  ask  of  God, 
Who  giveth  freely  and  upbraideth  not," 
Was  her  reply. 
7 


146  Kathrina. 

"  I  never  ask  of  God," 

I  said.     "  So,  while  you  take  at  second  hand 
His  breathings  to  the  artist,  I  will  take 
At  second  hand  the  wisdom  that  he  gives 
To  you  his  teacher." 

"  Do  you  never  pray  ?  " 

"  Never,"  I  answered  her.     "  I  cannot  pray  : 
You  know  the  reason.     Never  since  the  day 
God  shut  his  heart  against  my  mother's  prayer 
Have  I  raised  one  petition,  or  been  moved 
To  reverence." 

Her  long,  dark  lashes  fell, 

And  from  her  eyes  there  dropped  two  precious  tears 
That  bathed  her  folded  hands.     She  pitied  me, 
With  tenderness  beyond  the  reach  of  words. 
I  did  not  seek  her  pity.     1  was  proud, 
And  asked  her  if  she  blamed  me. 

"  No,"  she  said  ; 

"  I  have  no  right  to  blame  you,  and  no  wish. 
I  marvel  only  that  a  man  like  you 
Can  hold  so  long  the  errors  of  a  boy. 
I've  looked — with  how  much  longing,  words  of  mine 
Can  never  te-ll — for  reason  to  restore 


Kathrina.  147 

That  priceless  thing  which  passion  stole  from  you, 
And  looked  in  vain." 

Though  piqued  by  the  reproach 
Her  words  conveyed  (unwittingly  I  knew), 
I  wished  to  learn  where,  in  her  theory 
Of  human  life,  my  case  had  found  a  place; 
So,  bidding  pride  aback,  I  questioned  her. 
"  You  are  so  wise  in  other  things,"  I  said, 
"  And  read  so  well  God's  dealings  with  his  own, 
Perhaps  you  can  explain  this  mystery 
That  clouds  my  life." 

"  I  know  that  God  is  good," 
She  answered,  "  and,  although  my  reason  fail 
To  explicate  the  mystery  that  wraps 
His  providence,  it  does  not  shake  my  faith. 
But  this  sad  case  of  yours  has  seemed  so  plain, 
That  Reason  well  may  spare  the  staff  of  Faith 
To  climb  to  its  conclusions.     You  are  loved, 
My  husband  :  can  you  tell  your  wife  for  what  ?  " 

:'Oh!  modesty!  my  dear;  hem!  modesty! 
Spare  me  these  blushes  !  I  have  not  at  hand 
The  printed  catalogue  of  qualities 
Which  give  you  inspiration,  and  decline 
The  personal  rehearsal." 


148  Kathrina. 

"  You  mistake," 

She  answered,  smiling.     "  Not  for  modesty; 
And  as  for  blushes,  they're  not  patent  yet. 
But  frankly,  soberly,  I  ask  you  this  : 
Have  you  a  quality  of  heart  or  brain 
vVhich  makes  you  lovable,  and  in  my  eyes 
A  man  to  be  admired,  that  was  not  born 
Oirick  in  your  blood  ?     Pray,  have  you  anything 
Which  you  did  not  inherit  ?     Who  to  me 
Furnished  my  husband  ?     By  what  happy  law 
Was  all  that  was  the  finest,  noblest,  best 
In  those  who  gave  you  life,  bestowed  on  you  ? 
You  have  your  father's  form,  your  father's  brain  : 
You  have  your  mother's  eyes,  your  mothers  heart. 
Those  twain  produced  a  man  for  me  to  love, 
Out  of  themselves.     I  am  obliged  to  them 
For  the  most  precious  good  the  round  earth  holds, 
Transmitted  by  a  law  that  slew  them  both. 
It  was  not  sin,  or  shame,  for  them  to  die 
Just  as  they  died.     They  passed  with  whiter  hands 
Up  to  The  Throne  than  he  who  wantonly 
Murders  a  sparrow.     When  your  mother  prayed 
She  prayed  for  the  suspension  of  the  law 
By  which  from  Eve,  the  mother  of  the  race, 
She  had  received  the  grace  and  loveliness 
Which  made  her  precious  to  your  heart — the  law 
By  which  alone  she  could  convey  these  gifts 


Kathrina.  149 

To  others  of  her  blood.     Your  daughter's  face 

Js  beautiful,  her  soul  is  pure  and  sweet, 

By  largess  of  this  law.     Could  God  subvert, 

To  meet  her  wish,  though  shaped  in  agony, 

The  law  which,  since  the  life  of  man  began 

In  life  of  God,  has  kept  the  channel  clear 

For  His  own  blood,  that  it  might  bless  the  last 

Of  all  the  generations  as  the  first  ? 

What  could  He  more  than  give  her  liberty — 

When  reason  lay  in  torture  or  in  wreck, 

And  life  was  death — to  part  with  stainless  hand 

The  tie  that  held  her  from  his  loving  breast  ?  " 

If  God  himself  had  dropped  her  words  from  heaven, 

They  had  not  reached  with  surer  plummet-plunge 

The  depths  of  my  conviction.     I  was  dumb  ; 

I  opened  not  my  mouth  ;    but  left  her  side, 

And  sought  the  crowded  street.     I  felt  that  all 

Delusions,  subterfuges,  self-deceits. 

By  which  my  soul  had  shut  itself  from  God, 

Were  stripped  away,  and  that  no  barrie. 

Was  interposed  between  us  which  was  not 

My  own  hand's  building.     Never,  nevermore, 

Could  I  hold  God  in  blame,  or  deem  myself 

A  guiltless,  injured  creature.     I  could  see 

That  I  was  hard,  implacable,  unjust; 

And  that  by  force  of  wilful  choice  I  held 


1 50  Kathrina. 

Myself  from  God  ;    for  no  impulsion  came 
To  seek  his  face  and  favor.     Nay,  I  feared 
And  fought  such  incidence,  as  enemy 
Of  all  my  plans. 

So  it  became  thenceforth 
A  problem  with  me  how  to  separate 
My  new  conviction  from  my  life — to  hold 
A  revolutionizing  truth  within, 
And  hold  it  yet  so  loosely,  it  should  be 
Like  a  dumb  alien  in  a  mural  town — 
No  guest,  but  an  intruder,  who  might  bide, 
By  law  or  grace,  but  win  no  domicile, 
And  hold  no  power. 

When  I  returned,  that  night 
My  course  was  chosen,  with  such  sense  of  guilt 
I  blushed  before  the  calm,  inquiring  eyes 
That  met  me  at  my  threshhold  ;    but  the  theme 
Was  dropped  just  there.     My  gentle  mentor  read 
The  secret  of  the  struggle  and  the  sin, 
And  left  me  to  myself. 

At  the  set  time, 

I  entered  on  my  task.     The  discipline 
Of  early  years  told  feebly  on  my  work, 
For  dissipation  and  disuse  of  power 


Kathrina.  \  5 1 

Had  brought  me  back  to  infancy  again. 

My  will  was  weak,  my  patience  was  at  fault, 

And  in  my  fretful  helplessness,   I  stormed 

And  sighed  by  turns  ;  yet  still  I  held  in  force 

Determination,  as  reserve  of  will  ; 

And  when  I  flinched  or  faltered,  always  fell 

Back  upon  that,  and  saved  my  powers  from  rout 

Casting,  recasting,  till  I  found  the  germ 

Of  my  conception  putting  forth  its  whorls 

In  orderly  succession  round  the  stem 

Of  my  design,  that  straight  and  strong  shot  up 

Toward  inflorescence,  my  long  work  went  on, 

Till  I  was  filled  with  satisfying  joy. 

This  lasted  for  a  little  time,  and  then 

There  came  reaction.     I  grew  tired  of  it. 

My  verses  were  as  meaningless  and  stale 

As  doggrel  of  the  stalls.     I  marvelled  much 

That  they  could  ever  have  beguiled  my  pride 

Into  self-gratulation,  or  done  aught 

But  overwhelm  me  with  contempt  for  them, 

And  the  dull  pen  that  wrote  them. 

I  had  hoped 

To  form  and  finish  my  projected  work 
Within,  and  by,  myself, — to  tease  no  ear 
With  fragmentary  snatches  of  my  song, 
And  call  for  no  support  from  friendly  praise 


152  Kathrina. 

To  reinforce  my  courage  ;  but  the  stress 
Of  my  disgust  and  my  despair — the  need, 
Imperative  and  absolute,  to  brace  myself 
By  some  opinion  borrowed  for  the  nonce, 
lAnd  bathe  my  spirit  in  the  sympathy 
Of  some  strong  nature — mastered  my  intent, 
And  sent  me  for  resource  to  her  whose  heart 
Was  ever  open  to  my  call. 

She  sat 

Through  the  long  hour  in  which  I  read  to  her, 
Absorbed,  entranced,  as  one  who  sits  alone 
Within  a  dim  cathedral,  and  resigns 
His  spirit  to  the  organ-theme,  that  mounts, 
Or  sinks  in  tremulous  pauses,  or  sweeps  out 
On  mighty  pinions  and  with  trumpet  voice 
Through  labyrinthine  harmonies,  at  last 
Emerging,  and  through  silver  clouds  of  sound 
Receding  and  receding,  till  it  melts 
In  the  abysses  ot  the  upper  sky. 
It  was  not  needful  she  should  say  a  word  ; 
For  in  her  glowing  eyes  and  kindling  face, 
I  caught  the  full  assurance  that  my  heart 
Had  yearned  for;  but  she  spoke  her  hearty  praise; 
And  when  I  asked  her  for  her  criticism, 
Bestowed  it  with  such  modest  deference 
To  my  opinion,  as  to  spare  my  pride  ; 


Kathrina.  153 

Yet,  with  such  subtle  sense  of  harmony, 
And  insight  of  proportion,  that  I  saw 
That  I  should  find  no  critic  in   the  world 
More  competent  or  more  severe.     I  said, 
Gulping  my  pride  :   "  Better  this  ordeal 

In  friendly  hands,  before  the  time  of  types, 

i 
Than  afterward,  in  hands  of  enemies  ! " 

So,  from  that  reading,  it  was  understood 
Between  us  that,  whenever  I  essayed 
Revising  and  retouching,  I  should  know 
Her  intimate  impressions,  and  receive 
Her  frank  suggestions'     In  this  oversight 
And  constant  interest  of  one  whose  mind 
Was  excellent  and  pure,  and  raised  above 
All  motive  to  beguile  me,  I  secured 
New  inspiration. 

Weeks  and  months  passed  by 

With  gradient  hopefulness,  and  strength  renewed 
At  each  renewal  of  the  confidence 
I  had  reposed  in  her  ;  till  I  perceived 
That  I  was  living  on  her  praise — that  she 
Held  God's  place  in  me  and  the  multitude's. 
And  now,  as  I  look  back  upon  those  days 
Of  difficult  endeavor,  I  confess 
That  had  she  not  been  with  me,  I  had  failed — 
7* 


1 54  Kaihrina. 

Ay,  foundered  in  mid-sea — my  hope,  my  life, 
The  spoil  of  deep  oblivion. 

At  last 

The  work  was  done — the  labored  volume  closed,. 
'•'  I  cannot  make  it  better,"  I  exclaimed. 
"  I  can  write  better,  but,  before  I  write, 
I  must  have  recognition  in  the  voice 
Of  public  praise.     A  good  paymaster  pays 
When  work  is  finished.     Let  him  pay  for  this, 
And  I  will  work  again  ;    but,  till  he  pay, 
My  leisure  is  my  own,  and  1  will  wait." 

"  And  if  he  grudge  your  wage?"   suggested  she 
To  whom  I  spoke. 

"  I  shall  be  finished  too." 

Came  then  the  proofs  and  latest  polishing 
Of  words  and  phrases — work  I  shared  with  her 
To  whom  I  owed  so  much  ;    and  then  the  fear, 
The  deathly  heart-fall,  and  the  haunting  dread 
That  go  before  exposure  to  the  world 
Of  inmost  life,  and  utmost  reach  of  power 
Toward  revelation  ; — then  the  shrinking  spell, 
When  morbid  love  of  self  awaits  in  pain 
The  verdict  it  has  courted. 


KatJirina.  155 

But  at  last 

The  book  was  out.     My  daughter's  hand  in  mine — 
Her  careless  feet,  that  thrilled  with  springing  life, 
Skipping  the  pavement — I  walked  down  Broadway, 
To  ease  the  restlessness  and  cool  the  heat 
That  vexed  my  idle  waiting.     As  we  passed 
A  showy  window,  filled  with  costly  books, 
My  little  girl  exclaimed:    "  Oh,  father!     Seel 
There  is  your  name  !  " 

Straight  all  the  bravery 

Within  my  veins,  at  one  wild  heart-thump,  dropped, 
And  I  was  limp  as  water  ;    but  I  paused, 
And  read  the  placard.     It  announced  my  book 
In  characters  of  flame,  with  adjectives 
My  daring  publisher  had  filched,   I  think 
From  an  old  circus  broadside. 

"  Well ! ''-    thought  I— 
Biting  my  lip — "  I'm  in  the  market  now ! 
How  much — O  !    rattling,  roaring  multitude  ! 
O  !    selfish,  cheating,  lying  multitude ! 
O!    hawking,  trading,  delving  multitude! — 
How    much    for    one    man's    hope,    for    one    man's 

life? 

What  for  his  toil  and  pain  ? — his  heart's  red  blood  ? 
What  for  his  brains  and  breeding  ?     Oh,  how  much 


1 56  KatJirina. 

For  one  who  craves  your  praises  with  your  pence, 
And  dies  with  your  denial  ?  " 

I  went  in, 

And  bought  my  book — not  doubting  I  was  first 
To  give  response  to  my  apostrophe. 
The  smug  old  clerk,  who  found  his  length  of  ear 
Convenient  as  a  pencil-rack,  and  thus 
Made  nature's  wrath  proclaim  the  praise  of  trade, 
Wrapped  my  dear  bantling  well ;    and,  as  he  dropped 
My  dollar  in  his  till,  smiled  languidly 
Upon  my  little  girl,  and  said  to  me — 
To  cheer  me  in  my  purchase — that  the  book 
Was  thought  to  be  a  deuced  clever  thing. 
He  never  read  such  books  ;    he  had  no  time  ; 
Indeed,  he  had  no  interest  in  them. 
Still,  other  people  had,  and  it  was  well, 
For  it  helped  trade  along. 

It  was  for  him — 
A  vulgar  fraction  of  the  integral 

We  speak  of  as  "  the  people,"  and  "  the  world"— 
I  had  been  writing !     Had  he  read  my  book, 
And  given  it  his  praise,  I  should  have  been 
Delighted,  though  I  knew  that  his  applause 
Was  worthless  as  his  brooch.     I  was  a  fool 
Undoubtedly ;  yet  I  could  understandj 


Kathtina.  157 

Better  than  e'er  before,  how  separate 
The  artist  is  from  such  a  soul  as  his — 
What  need  of  teachers  and  interpreters 
To  crumble  in  his  pewter  porringer 
The  rounded  loaf,  whose  crust  was  adamant 
To  his  weak  fingers. 

The  next  morning's  press 
Was  purchased  early,  though  I  read  in  vain 
To  find  my  reputation.     But  at  night, 
My  door-bell  rang  ;  and  I  received  a  note 
From  one  who  edited  an  evening  print, 
(I  had  dined  with  him  at  my  publisher's), 
Inclosing  a  review,  and  venturing 
The  hope  that  I  should  like  it. 

Cunning  man  I 

He  knew  the  tricks  of  trade,  and  was  adroit. 
My  poem  was  "  a  revelation."     I  had  "  burst 
Like  thunder  from  a  calm  and  cloudless  sky." 
Well,  not  to  quote  his  language,  this  the  drift : 
A  man  of  fortune,  living  at  his  ease, 
But  fond  of  manly  effort,  had  sat  down, 
And  turned  his  culture  to  supreme  account ; 
And  he — the  editor — took  on  himself 
To  thank  him  on  the  world's  behalf.     Withal, 
The  poet  had  betrayed  the  continence 


158  Katlirina. 

Of  genius.     He  had  held,  undoubtedly, 
The  consciousness  of  power  from  early  youth ; 
But,  yielding  never  to  the  itch  for  print, 
Had  nursed  and  chastened  and  developed  it, 
Until  his  hand  was  strong,  and  swept  his  lyre 
With  magic  of  a  master. 

Followed  here 

Sage  comments  on  the  rathe  and  puny  brood 
Of  poet-sucklings,  who  had  rushed  to  type 
Before  their  time — pale  stems  that  spun  their  flower3 
In  the  first  sunshine,  but,  when  Autumn  came, 
Were  fruitless.     It  was  pleasant,  too,  to  see, 
In  such  an  age  of  sentimental  cant, 
One  man  who  dared  to  hold  up  to   the  world 
A  creature  of  his  brain,  and  say  :   "  Look  you! 
This  is  my  thought  ;  and  it  shall  stand  alone. 
It  has  no  moral,  bears  no  ministry 
Of  pious  teaching,  and  makes  no  appeal 
To  sufferance  or  suffrage  of  the  muffs 
Who,  in  the  pulpit  or  the  press,  prepare 
The  nation's  pap.     The  fiery-footed  barb 
That  pounds  the  pampas,  and  the  lily-bells 
That  hang  above  the  brooks,  present  the  world 
With  no  apology  for  being  there, 
And  no  attempt  to  justify  themselves 
In  uselessness.     It  is  enough  for  God 


KatJirina.  1 59 

That  they  are  beautiful,  and  hold  his  thought 
In  fine  embodiment ;  and  it  shall  be 
Enough  for  me  that,  in  this  book  of  mine, 
I  have  created  somewhat  that  is  strong 
And  beautiful,  which,  if  it  profit, — well : 
If  not,  'tis  no  less  strong  and  beautiful, 
And  holds  its  being  by  no  feebler  right." 

Ay,  it  was  glorious  to  find  one  man 
Who  piled  no  packs  upon  his  Pegasus, 
Nor  chained  him  to  a  rag-cart,  loaded  down 
With  moral  frippery,  and  strings  of  bells 
To  call  the  people  to  their  windows. 

Then 

There  followed  extracts,  with  a  change  of  type 
To  mark  the  places  where  the  editor 
Had  caught  a  fancy  hiding,  which  he  feared 
Might  slip  detection  under  slower  eyes 
Than  those  he  carried  ;  or  to  emphasize 
Felicities  of  diction  that  were  stiff 
In  Roman  verticals,  but  grew  divine 
At  the  Italic  angle  ;  then  apology, 
Profoundly  humble,  to  his  patrons  all 
For  quoting  at  such  length,  and  one  to  me 
For  quoting  anything,  and  deep  regrets, 
In  quite  a  general  way,  that  lack  ot  space 


1 60  KatJirina, 

Forbade  a  reproduction  of  the  book 

From  title-page  to  tail-piece,  winding  up 

With  counsel  to  all  lovers  of  pure  art, 

Patrons  of  genius,  all  Americans, 

All  friends  of  cis-Atlantic  literature, 

To  buy  the  book,  and  read  it  for  themselves. 

I  drank  the  whole,  at  one  long,  luscious  draught 

Tipping  the  tankard  high,  that  I  might  see 

My  features  at  the  bottom,  and  regale 

My  pride,  after  my  palate.     Then  I  tossed 

The  paper  to  my  wife,  and  bade  her  read. 

I  watched  her  while  she  read,  but  failed  to  find 

The  sympathy  of  pleasure  in  her  face 

I  had  expected.     Finishing  at  last, 

She  raised  her  eyes,  and,  fixing  them  on  me, 

Said  thoughtfully  :  "  You  like  this,  I  suspect." 

"Well,  truly!"  I  responded,  "since  it  seems 
To  be  the  first  instalment  of  the  wage 
Which  you  suggested  might  come  grudgingly. 
Ay,  it  is  sweet  to  me.     I  know  it  fails 
In  nice  discrimination, — that  it  slurs 
Defects  which  I  perceive  as  well  as  you  ; 
But  it  is  kind,  and  places  in  best  light 
Such  excellences  as  we  both  may  find — 
May  claim,  indeed." 


KatJirina.  1 6 1 

"  And  yet,  it  is  a  lie, 
Or  what  the  editor  would  call  '  a  puff,' 
From  first  to  last.     The  '  continence,'  my  dear, 
"  Of  genius  !  '     What  of  that  ?     And  what  about 
The  '  manly  effort,'  for  whose  exercise 
He  thanked  you  on  the  world's  behalf?     And  so 
Your  nursing,  chastening  and  developing 
Of  power  ! — Pray  what  of  these  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  wife  !  "  I  said, 

"  Don't  spoil  it  all !     Be  pitiful,  my  love  ! 
I  am  a  baby— granted  :  so  I  need 
The  touch  of  tender  hands,  and  something  sweet 
To  keep  me  happy." 

"  Babies  take  a  bath, 

Sometimes,  from  which  the  hand  of  warmest  love 
Filches  the  chill,  and  you  must  have  one  dash," 
She  answered  me,   "  to  close  your  complement. 
The  weakest  spot  in  all  your  book,  he  found 
With  a  quick  instinct ;  and  on  that  he  spent 
His  sharpest  force  and  finest  rhetoric, 
Shoring  and  bracing  it  on  every  side 
With  bold  assumptions  and  affirmatives, 
To  blind  the  eyes  of  novices,  and  scare 
With  fierce  forestalment  all  the  critic-quills 
Now  bristling  for  their  chance.     He  saw  at  once 


1 62  Kathrina. 

Your  poem  had  no  mission,  save,  perhaps, 

The  tickle  of  the  taste,  and  that  it  bore 

Upon  its  glowing  gold  small  food  for  life. 

He  saw  just  there  the  point  to  be  attacked  ; 

And    there    threw     up    his    earth-works,     and    spreao 

out 

His  thorned  abattis.     He  was  very  kind 
Undoubtedly,  and  very  cunning,  too  ; 

For  well  he  knew  that  there  are  earnest  souls 

» 

In  the  broad  world,  who  claim  that  highest  art 

Is  highest  ministry  to  human  need  ; 

And  that  the  artist  has  no  Christian  right 

To  prostitute  his  art  to  selfish  ends, 

Or  make  it  vehicle  alone  of  plums 

For  the  world's  pudding." 

"  These  will  speak  in  time," 
Responded  I ;    "  but  they  have  not  the  ear 
Of  the  broad  world,   I  think.     The  Christian  right 
Of  which  you  speak  is  hardly  recognized 
Among  the  multitude,  or  by  the  guild 
In  which  I  claim  a  place.     The  sectaries 
Who  furnish  folios,  quartos,  magazines, 
To  the  religious  few,  are  limited 
In  influence  ;   and  these,  my  wife,  arc  all 
I  have  to  fear; — nay,  could  I  but  arouse 
Their  bitter  enmity,  I  might  receive 


KatJirina.  163 

Such  superflux  of  praise  and  patronage 
As  would  o'erwhelm  my  sweetly  Christian  wife 
With  shame  and  misery.     But  we  shall  see  ; 
And,  in  the  meantime,  let  us  be  content 
That,  if  one  man  shall  praise  me  overmuch, 
Ten,  at  the  least,  will  fail  to  render  me 
Befitting  justice." 

As  the  days  went  on, 
Reviews  and  notices  came  pouring  in. 
1  was  notorious,  at  least  ;    and  fame, 
I  whispered  comfortably  to  myself, 
Is  only  notoriety  turned  gray, 
With  less  of  fire,  if  more  of  steadiness. 
The  adverse  verdicts  were  not  numerous  ; 
And  these  were  rendered,  as  I  fancied  then, 
By  sanctimonious  fools  who  deemed  profane 
All  verse  outside  their  thumb-worn  hymnodieSo 
My  book  received  the  rattling  fusilade 
Of  all  the  dailies :    then  the  artillery 
Of  the  hebdomadals,  whose  noisy  shells, 
Though  timed  by  fuse  to  burst  on  Saturday, 
Exploded  at  the  middle  of  the  week ; 
At  last,  a  hundred-pounder  quarterly 
Gave  it  a  single  missive  from  its  mask 
Of  far  and  dark  impersonality. 
The  smoke  cleared  up,  and  still  my  colors 


IO4  Kathrina. 

And  still  my  book  stood  proudly  in  the  sun, 
Nor  breached  nor  battered. 

I  had  won  a  place 

That  I  was  sure  of.     All  had  said  of  me 
That  I  was  "brilliant:"  was  not  that  enough? 
The  petty  pesterers,  with  card  and  stamp, 
Who  hunt  for  autographs,  were  after  me, 
In  packages  by  post ;   and  idle  men 
Held  me  at  corners  by  the  button-hole, 
And  introduced  me  to  their  friends.     I  dined 
With  meek-eyed  men,  whose  literary  wives 
Were  dying  all  to  know  me,  as  they  said  ; 
And  the  lyceums,  quick  at  scent  and  sight — 
Watching  the  jungles  for  a  lion — all 
Courted  the  delectation  of  my  roar 
Upon  their  platforms,  pledging  to  my  hand 
(With  city  reference  to  stanchcst  names), 
Such  honoraria  as  would  have  been 
The  lion's  share  of  profits.     These  were  straws  ; 
But  they  had  surer  fingers  for  the  wind 
Than  withes  or  weathercocks. 

The  book  sold  well 

My  publisher  (who  published  at  my  risk, 
And  first  put  on  the  airs  of  one  who  stooped 
To  grant  a  favor),  brimmed  and  overflowed 


Kathrina.  165 

With  courtesy;    and  ere  a  year  was  gone, 

Became  importunate  for  something  more. 

This  was  his  plea  :    I  owed  it  to  myself 

To  write  again.     The  time  to  make  one's  hay 

Is  when  the  sun  shines  :    time  to  write  one's  books 

Is  when  the  public  humor  turns  to  them. 

The  public  would  forget  me  in  a  year, 

And  seek  another  idol ;   or,  meanwhile, 

Another  writer  might  usurp  my  throne, 

And  I  be  hooted  from  my  own  domain 

As  a  pretender.     Then  the  market's  maw 

Was  greedy  for  my  poems.     Just  how  long 

The  appetite  would  last,  he  could  not  tell, 

For  appetite  is  subject  of  caprice, 

And  never  lasts  too  long. 

The  man  was  wise, 

I  plainly  saw,  and  gave  me  the  results 
Of  observation  and  experience. 
I  took  his  hint,  accepting  with  a  pang 
The  truths  that  came  with  it :    for  instance,  these  :-— 
That  he  who  speaks  for  praise  of  those  who  live, 
Must  keep  himself  before  his  audience, 
Nor  look  for  "  bravas,"  cheers,  and  cries  of  "hear!* 
And  clap  of  hands  and  stamp  of  feet,  except 
With  fresh  occasion  ;    that  applause  of  crowds, 
Though  fierce,  runs  never  to  the  chronic  stage; 


1 66  Kathrina. 

That  good  paymasters,  having  paid  for  work 
The  doer's  price,  expect  receipt  in  full 
At  even  date  ;    and  that  if  1  would  keep 
My  place,  as  grand  purveyor  to  the  greed 
For  novelties  of  literary  art, 
My  viands  must  be  sapid,  and  abound 
With  change,  to  wake  or  whet  the  appetite 
I  sought  to  feed. 

I  say  I  took  his  hint. 
Bestowed  in  selfishness,  without  a  doubt, 
Though  in  my  interest.     For  ten  long  years 
It  was  the  basis  of  my  policy. 
I  poured  my  poems  with  redundancy 
Upon  the  world,  and  won  redundant  meed. 
If  I  gave  much,  the  world  was  generous, 
Repaying  more  than  justice  ;    but,  at  last, 
Tired  and  disgusted,  I  laid  down  my  pen. 
I  knew  my  work  would  not  outlast  my  life, 
That  the  enchantments  which  had  wreathed  themselves 
Around  my  name  were  withering  away, 
With  every  breath  of  fragrance  they  exhaled  ; 
And  that,  too  soon,  the  active  brain  and  hand 
Whose  skill  had  conjured  them,  would  faint  and  fail 
Under  the  press  of  weariness  and  years. 
My  reputation  piqued  me.     None  believed 
That  it  was  in  me  to  write  otherwise 


Kathrina.  167 

Than  I  had  written.     All  the  world  had  laughed, 
Or  shaken  its  wise  head,  had  I  essayed 
A  work  beyond  the  round  of  brilliancies 
In  which  my  pen  had  revelled,  and  for  which 
It  gave  such  princely  guerdon.     If  I  looked, 
Or  came  to  look,  with  measureless  contempt 
On  those  who  gave  with  such  munificence 
The  boon  I  sought,  I  had  provoking  cause. 
I  fooled  them  all  with  patent  worthlessness, 
And  they  insisted  I  should  fool  them  still. 
The  wisdom  of  a  whole  decade  had  failed 
To  teach  them  that  the  thing  my  hand  had  done 
Was  not  worth  doing. 

More  and  worse  than  this  ; 
I  found  my  character  and  self-respect 
Eroded  by  the  canker  of  conceit, 
Poisoned  by  jealousy,  and  made  the  prey 
Of  meanest  passions.     Harlequins  in  mask, 
Who  live  upon  the  laughter  of  the  throng 
That  crowds  their  reeking  amphitheatres  ; 
Light-footed  dancing-girls,  who  sell  their  grace 
To  gaping  lechers  of  the  pit,  to  win 
That  which  shall  feed  their  shameless  vanity  \ 
The  mimics  of  the  buskin — baser  still, 
The  mimics  of  the  negro — minstrel-bands. 
With  capital  of  corks  and  castanets 


1 68  Kathrina. 

And  threadbare  jests — Ah !  who  and  what  was  I 
But  brother  of  all  these — in  higher  walk, 
But  brother  in  the  motive  of  my  life, 
In  jealousy,  in  recompense  for  toil, 
And,  last,  in  destiny? 

My  wife  had  caught 

Stray  silver  in  her  hair  in  these  long  years  ; 
And  the  sweet  maiden  springing  from  our  lives 
Had  grown  to  womanhood.     In  my  pursuits, 
Which  drank  my  time  and  my  vitality, 
I  had  neglected  them.     I  worked  at  home, 
But  lived  in  other  scenes,  for  other  lives, 
Or,  rather,  for  my  own  ;  and  though  my  pride 
Shrank  from  the  deed,  I  had  the  tardy  grace 
To  call  them  to  me,  and  confess  my  shame, 
And  beg  for  their  forgiveness. 

Once  again- 
All  explanations  passed — I  sat  beside 
My  faithful  wife,  and  canvassed  as  of  old 
New  plans  of  life.     I  found  her  still  the  same 
In  purpose  and  in  magnanimity  ; 
For  she  dealt  no  upbraidings  and  no  blame  ; 
Cast  in  my  teeth  no  old-time  prophecies 
Of  failure  ;  felt  no  triumph  which  rejoiced 
To  mock  me  with  the  words,  "  I  told  you  so." 


Kathrina.  169 

Calmly  she  sat,  and  tried,  with  gentlest  speech, 
To  heal  the  bruises  of  my  fall ;  to  wake 
A  better  feeling  in  me  toward  the  world, 
And  soothe  my  morbid  self- contempt. 

The  world, 

She  said,  is  apt  to  take  a  public  man 
At  his  own  estimate,  and  yield  him  place 
According  to  his  choice.     I  had  essayed 
To  please  the  world,  and  gather  in  its  praise  ; 
And,  certainly,  the  world  was  pleased  with  me, 
And  had  not  stinted  me  in  its  return 
Of  plauditory  payment.     As  the  world 
Had  taken  me  according  to  my  rate, 
And  filled  my  wish,  it  had  a  valid  claim 
On  my  good  nature. 

Then,  beyond  all  this, 

The  world  was  not  a  fool.     Those  books  of  mine, 
That  I  had  come  to  look  upon  as  trash, 
Were  not  all  trash.     My  motive  had  been  poor, 
And  that  had  vitiated  them  for  me  ; 
But  there  was  much  in  them  that  yielded  strength 
To  struggling  souls,  and,  to  the  wounded,  balm. 
Indeed,  she  had  been  helped  by  them,  herself. 
They  were  all  pure  ;    they  made  no  foul  appeal 

To  baseness  and  brutality  ;    they  had 
8 


1 70  Kathrina. 

An  element  of  gentle  chivalry, 
Such  as  must  have  a  place  in  any  man 
Shrinking  with  sensitiveness,  like  myself, 
From  a  fine  reputation",  scorning  it 
For  motive  which  had  svon  it. 

Words  like  these, 

From  lips  like  hers,  were  needed  medicine. 
They  clarified  my  weak  and  jaundiced  sight, 
And  helped  to  juster  vision  of  the  world, 
And  of  myself.     But  there  was  no  return 
Of  the  old  greed  ;    and  fame,  which  I  had  learned 
To  be  an  entity  quite  different 
From  my  conceit  of  it  in  other  days, 
Was  something  much  too  far  and  nebulous 
To  be  my  star  of  life. 

"You  have  some  plan?" — 

Statement  and  query  in  same  words,  which  fell 
From  lips  that  sought  to  rehabilitate 
My  will  and  self-respccf. 

"  I  have,"  I  said. 

"Else  you  were  dead,"  responded  she.     "To  live, 
Men  must  have  plans.     When  these  die  out  of  men 
They  crumble  into  chaos,  or  relapse 


Kathrina.  1 7 1 

Into  inanity.     Will  you  reveal 
These  plans  of  yours  to  me  ?  " 

.    "Ay,  if  I  can/' 

I  answered  her;    "but  first  I  must  reveal 
The  base  on  which  I  build  them.     I  have  tried 
To  find  the  occasion  of  my  discontent, 
And  find  it,  as  I  think,  just  here  ;    in  quest 
Of  popularity,  I  have  become 
Untrue  both  to  myself  and  to  my  art. 
I  have  not  dared  to  speak  the  royal  truth 
For  fear  of  censure ;   I  have  been  a  slave 
To  men's  opinions.     What  is  best  in  me 
Has  been  debauched  by  the  pursuit  of  praise 
As  life's  best  prize.     Conviction,  sentiment, 
All  love  and  hate,  all  sense  of  right  and  wrong, 
I  have  held  in  abeyance,  or  compelled 
To  work  in  menial  subservience 
To  my  grand  purpose.     If  my  sentiment 
Or  my  conviction  were  but  popular, 
It  flowed  in  hearty  numbers  :    otherwise, 
It  slept  in  silence. 

"  Now  as  to  my  art ; 
I  find  that  it  has  suffered  like  myself, 
And- suffered  from  same  cause.     My  verse  has  been 
Shaped  evermore  to  meet  the  people's  thought. 


172  Kathrina. 

That  which  was  highest,  grandest  in  my  art 

I  have  not  reached,  and  have  not  tried  to  reach, 

I  have  but  touched  the  surfaces  of  things 

That  meet  the  common  vision ;    and  my  art 

Has  only  aimed  to  clothe  them  gracefully 

With  fancy's  gaudy  fabrics,  or  portray 

Their  patent  beauties  and  deformities. 

Above  the  people  in  my  gift  and  art, 

Both  gift  and  art  have  had  a  downward  trend 

And  both  are  prostitute. 

"  Discarding  praise 
As  motive  of  my  labor,  I  confess 
My  sins  against  my  art,  and  so,  henceforth, 
As  to  my  goddess,  give  myself  to  Jjer. 
The  chivalry  which  you  are  pleased  to  note 
In  me  and  works  of  mine,  turns  loyally 
To  her  and  to  her  service.     Nevermore 
Shall  pen  of  mine  demean  itself  by  work 
That  serves  not  first,  and  with  supreme  intent. 
The  art  whose  slave  it  is." 

"  I  understand, 

I  think,  the  basis  of  your  plan,"  she  said  ; 
"  And  e'en  the  plan  itself.     You  now  propose 
To  write  without  remotest  reference 
To  the  world's  wishes,  prejudices,  needs, 


Kathrina.  173 

Cr  e'en  the  world's  opinions, — quite  content 
If  the  world  find  aught  in  you  to  applaud  ; 
Quite  as  content  if  it  condemn.     With  full 
Expression  of  yourself  in  finest  terms 
And  noblest  forms  of  art,  so  far  as  God 
Has  made  you  masterful,  you  give  yourself 
Up  to  yourself  and  to  your  art.     Is  this 
Fair  statement  of  your  purpose  ?  " 

"  Not  unfair/' 
I  answered.     "  Tell  me  what  you  think  of  it." 

"  Suppose,"  she  said,  "  that  all  the  artist-souls 

That  God  has  made  since  time  and  art  began 

Had  acted  on  your  theory  :    suppose 

In  architecture,  picture,  poetry, 

Naught  had  found  utterance  but  works  that  sprang 

To  satisfy  the  worker,  and  reveal 

That  bundle  of  ideas  which,  to  him, 

Is  constituted  art ;    but  which,  in  truth, 

Is  figment  of  his  fancy,  or  his  thought, — 

His  creature,  made  his  God — say  where  were  all 

The  temples,  palaces  and  homes  of  men  ; 

The  galleries  that  blaze  with  history, 

Or  bloom  with  landscape,  or  look  down 

With  smile  of  changeless  love  or  loveliness 

Into  the  hearts  of  men  ?     And  where  were  all 


j~74  Kathrina. 

The  poems  that  give  measure  to  their  praise, 

Voice  to  their  aspirations,  forms  of  light 

To  homely  facts  and  features  of  their  life, 

Enveloping  this  plain,  prosaic  world 

In  an  ideal  atmosphere,  in  which 

Fair  angels  come  and  go  ?     All  gifts  of  men 

Were  made  for  use,  and  made  for  highest  use, 

If  highest  use  be  service  of  one's  self, 

And  highest  standard,  one's  embodiment 

Of  dogmas,  theories  and  thoughts  of  art, 

As  art's  identity,  then  are  you  right  ; 

But  if  a  higher  use  of  gift  and  art 

Be  service  of  mankind,  and  higher  rule 

God's  regal  truth,  revealed  in  words  or  worlds, 

And  verified  by  life,  then  are  you  wrong." 

"But  art?" — responded  I — "you  do  not  mean 
That  art  is  nothing  but  a  thing  of  thought, 
Or,  less  than  that,  of  fancy  ?     Nay,  I  claim 
That  it  is  somewhat — a  grand  entity— 
An  organism  of  lofty  principles, 
Informed  with  subtlest  life,  and  clothed  upon 
With  usage  and  tradition  of  the  men 
Who,  working  in  those  sunny  provinces 
Where  it  holds  eminent  domain,  have  brought 
To  build  its  temple  and  adorn  its  walls 
The  usufruct  of  countless  lives.     So  tar 


Kathrina.  175 

Is  art  from  being  creature  of  man  s  thought 

That  it  is  subject  of  his  knowledge — stands 

In  mighty  mystery,  and    challenges 

The  study  of  the  world  ;  rules  noblest  minds 

Like  law  or  like  religion  ;  is  a  power 

To  which  the  proudest  artist- spirits  bow 

With  humblest  homage.      Is  astronomy 

The  creature  of  man's  thought  ?     Is  chemistry  ? 

Yet  these  hold  not,  in  this  our  universe, 

A  form  more  definite,  nor  yet  a  place 

In  human  knowledge  more  beyond  dispute, 

Than  art  itself.     To  this  embodiment 

Of  theory — of  dogmas,  if  you  will — 

This  body  aggregate  of  truth  revealed 

In  growing  light  of  ages  to  the  eyes 

Touched  to  perception,  I  devote  my  life." 

"  Nay,  you're  too  fast,"  she  said  :  "let  alchemy 

And  old  astrology  present  your  thought. 

These  were  somewhat ;  these  were  grand  entities  ; 

But  they  went  out  like  candles  in  thin  air 

When  knowledge  came.     The  sciences  are  things 

Of  law,  of  force,  relations,  measurements, 

Affinities  and  combinations,  all 

The  definite,  demonstrable  effects 

Of  first  and  second  causes.     Between  these 

And  men's  opinions,  braced  by  usages, 


Kathrina. 

The  space  is  wide.     The  thing  which  you  call  art 

Is  anything  but  definite  in  form, 

Or  fixed  in  law.     It  has  as  many  shapes 

As  worshippers.     The  world  has  many  books, 

Written  by  earnest  men,  about  this  art ; 

But  having  read  them,  we  are  no  more  wise 

Than  he  whose  observation  of  the  sun 

Is  taken  by  kaleidoscope.     The  more 

He  sees  in  it,  the  more  he  is  confused. 

The  sun  works,  doubtless,  many  fine  effects 

With  what  he  sees,  but  he  sees  not  the  sun." 

"  But  art  is  art,"  I  said.     "  You'd  cheat  my  sense. 
And  mock  my  reason  too.     Ay,  art  is  art. 
Things  must  have  being  that  have  history." 

Then  she:  "Yes,  politics  has  history, 

And  therefore  has  a  being, — has,  in.  truth, 

Just  such  a  being  as  I  grant  to  art — 

A  being  of  opinions.     Every  state 

Has  origin  and  ends  of  government 

Peculiarly  its  own,  and  so,  from  these, 

Constructs  its  theory  of  politics, 

And  holds  this  theory  against  the  world  ; 

And  holds  it  well.     There  is  no  fixedness 

Or  form  of  politics  for  all  mankind  ; 

And  there  is  none  of  art.     Each  artist-soul 


Kathrina.  17  7 

Is  its  own  law  ;  and  he  who  dares  to  bring 
From  work  of  other  man,  to  lay  on  yours, 
His  square  and  compass — thus  declaring  him 
The  pattern  man — and  tells,  by  him,  you  lack 
Just  so  much  here,  or  wander  so  much  there, 
Thereby  confesses  just  how  much  he  lacks 
Of  wisdom  and  plain  sense.     For  every  man 
Has   special  gift  of  power  and  end  of  life. 
No  man  is  great  who  lives  by  other  law 
Than  that  which  wrapped  his  genius  at  his  birth. 
The  Lind  is  great  because  she  is  the  Lind, 
And  not  the  Malibran.     Recorded  art 
Is  yours  to  study — e'en  to  imitate, 
In  education — imitate  or  shun, 
As  the  case  warrants;  but  it  has  destroyed, 
Or  toned  to  commonplace,  more  gifts  of  God 
Than  it  has  ever  fanned  to  life  or  fed. 
Who  never  walks  save  where  he  sees  men's  tracks 
Makes  no  discoveries.     Show  me  the  man 
Who,  leaving  God  and  nature  and  himself, 
Sits  at  the  feet  of  masters,  stuffs  his  brain 
With  maxims,  notions,  usages  and  rules, 
And  yields  his  fancy  up  to  leading-strings, 
And  I  shall  see  a  man  who  never  did 
A  deed  worth  doing.     So,  in  the  name  of  art- 
Nay,  in  the  name  of  God — do  no  such  thing 
As  smutch  your  knees  by  bowing  at  a  shrine, 


1/8  KatJirina. 

Whose  doubtful  deity,  in  midst  of  dust, 
Sits  in  the  cast-off  robes  of  devotees, 
And  lives  on  broken  victuals ! " 

"  Drive,  my  dear! 

Drive  on,  and  over  me !     You're  on  the  old 
High-stepping  horse  to-night;    so  give  him  rein, 
For  exercise  is  good,"  I  said,  in  mirth. 
"  You  sit  your  courser  finely.     I  confess 
I'm  very  proud  of  you,  and  too  much  pleased 
With  your  accomplishments  to  check  your  speed. 
Drive  on,  my  love!    drive  on!" 

"  I  thank  you,  sir 

No  one  so  gracious  as  your  grudging  man 
Under  compulsion  !     With  your  kind  consent 
I'll  ride  a  little  further,"  she  replied, — 
"  For  I  enjoy  it  quite  as  much  as  you — 
The  more  because  you've  given  me  little  chance 
In  these  last  years.     .     .     .     Now,  soberly,  this  art ^ 
Of  which  we  talk  so  much,  without  the  power 
To  tell  exactly  what  we  understand 
By  the  hack  term — suppose  we  take  the  word, 
And  try  to  find  its  meaning.     You  recall 
Old  John  who  dressed  the  borders  in  our  court  : 
You  called  him,  hired  him,  told  him  what  t(    do 
He  and  his  rake  stood  interposed  between 


KatJirina.  1 79 

You  and  your  work.     You  chose  his  skilful  hands, 

Endowing  them  with  pay,  or  pledge  of  pay, 

And  set  him  at  his  labor.     Now  suppose 

Old  John  had  had  a  philosophic  turn 

After  you  left  him,  and  had  thought  like  this  : 

'  I  am  called  here  to  do  a  certain  work — 

My  rake  tells  what ;    and  he  who  called  me  here 

Has  given  me  the  motive  for  the  job. 

The  work  is  plain.     These  borders  are  to  be 

Levelled  and  cleaned  of  weeds  :    my  hand  and  rake 

Are  fitted  for  the  service  ; — this  my  art  ; 

And  it  is  first  of  all  the  arts.     There's  none 

More  ancient,  useful,  worshipful,  indeed, 

Than  agriculture.     Adam  practised  it  ; 

Poets  have  sung  its  praises  ;    and  the  great 

Of  every  age  have  loved  and  honored  it. 

This  art  is  greater  than  the  man  I  serve, 

And  greater  than  his  borders.     Therefore  I 

Will  serve  my  art,  and  let  the  borders  lie, 

And  my  employer  whistle.     True  to  that, 

And  to  myself,  it  matters  not  to  me 

What  weeds  may  grow,  or  what  the  master  think 

Of  my  proceeding  ! ' 

"  So,  intent  on  this, 

He  hangs  his  rake  upon  your  garden  wall, 
And  steals  your  clematis,   with  which  to  wind 


1 80  Kathrina. 

The  handle  upward  ;    then  o'erfills  his  hands 

With  roses  and  geraniums,  and  weaves 

Their  beauty  into  laurel,  for  a  crown 

For  his  slim  god,  completing  his  devoir 

By  buttering  the  teeth,  and  kneeling  down 

In  abject  homage.     I'ray,  what  would  you  say, 

At  close  of  day,  when  you  should  go  to  see 

Your  untouched  borders,  and  your  gardener 

At  genuflexion,  with  your  mignonette 

In  every  button-hole  ?     Remember,  now, 

He  has  been  true  to  art  and  to  himself, 

According  to  his  notion  ;  nor  forget 

To  take  along  a  dollar  for  his  hire, 

Which  he  expects,  of  course  !     What  would  you  say  ?  * 

"  Oh,  don't  mind  that  :    you've  reached  your  '  fifthly' 

now, 
And  here  the  '  application  '  comes,"  I  said. 

"  I  think,"  responded  she,  with  an  arch  smile, 

"  The  application's  needless  :   but  you  men 

Are  so  obtuse,  when  will  is  in  the  way, 

That  I  will  do  your  bidding.     Every  gift 

That  God  bestows  on  men  holds  in  itself 

The  secret  of  its  office,  like  the  rake 

The  gardener  wields.     The  rake  was  made  to  till— 

Was  fashioned,  heal  and  handle,  for  just  that  ; 


KatJirina.  181 

And  if,  by  grace  of  God,  you  hold  a  gift 

So  fashioned  and  adapted,  that  it  stands 

In  like  relation  of  supremest  use 

To  life  of  men,  the  office  of  your  gift 

Has  perfect  definition.     Gift  like  this 

Is  yours,  my  husband.     In  your  facile  hands 

God  placed  it  for  the  service  of  himself, 

In  service  of  your  kind.     Taking  this  gift, 

And  using  it  for  God  and  for  the  world, 

In  your  own  way,  and  in  your  own  best  way  ; 

Seeking  for  light  and  knowledge  everywhere 

To  guide  your  careful  hand  ;  and  opening  wide 

To  spiritual  influx  all  your  soul, 

That  so  your  master  may  breathe  into  you, 

And  breathe  his  great  life  through  you,  in  such  forms 

Of  pure  presentment  as  he  gives  you  skill 

To  build  withal — that's  all  01  art — for  you. 

Art  is  an  instrument,  and  not  an  end — 

A  servant,  not  a  master,  nor  a  God 

To  be  bowed  down  to.     Shall  we  worship  rakes  ? 

Honor  of  art,  by  him  whose  work  is  art, 

Is  a  fine  passion  ;  but  he  honors  most 

Whose  use  and  end  are  best." 

"  Use  !     Use  !     Use  !  " 
I  cried  impatiently  ; — "  nothing  but  use  ! 
As  if  God  never  made  a  violet, 


1 82  Kathrina. 

Or  hung  a  harebell,  or  in  kindling  gold 

Garnished  a  sunset,  or  upreared  the  arch 

Of  a  bright  rainbow,  or  endowed  a  world — 

A  universe,  indeed — stars,  firmament, 

The  vastitudes  of  forest  and  of  sea, 

Swift  brooks  and  sweeping  rivers,  virid  meads 

And  fluff  of  breezy  hills — with  tints  that  rang& 

The  scale  of  spectral  beauty,  till  they  leave 

No  glint  or  glory  of  the  changeful  light 

Without  a  revelation  !     Is  this  use — 

I  beg  your  pardon,  love  :  you  say  '  this  art '—-. 

The  sum  and  end  of  art?     If  it  be  so, 

Then  God's  no  artist.     Are  the  crystal  brooks 

Sweeter  for  singing  to  the  thirsty  brutes 

That  dip  their  beaded  muzzles  in  the  foam  ? 

Burns  the  tree  better  that  its  leaves  are  green  ? 

Sleeps  the  sun  sounder  under  canopy 

Of  gold  or  rose  ?  " 

"  Yet  beauty  has  its  use," 
Responded  she.     "  Whatever  elevates 
Inspires,  refreshes,  any  human  soul, 
Is  useful  to  that  soul.     Beauty  has  use 
For  you  and  me.     The  dainty  violet 
Blooms  in  our  thought,  and  sheds  its  fragrance  there 
And  we  are  gainers  through  its  ministry. 
All  God's  great  values  wear  the  drapery 


KatJirina.  183 

That  most  becomes  them.     Beauty  may,  in  truth. 
Be  incident  of  art  and  not  be  end — 
Its  form,  condition,  features,  dress,  and  still 
The  humblest  value  of  the  things  of  art. 
This  truth  obtains  in  all  God's  artistry. 
Does  God  make  beauty  for  himself,  alone  ? 
He  is,  and  holds,  all  beauty.     Has  he  need 
To  kindle  rushes  that  he  may  behold 
The  glory  of  his  thoughts  ?    or  need  to  use 
His  thoughts  as  plasms  for  the  amorphous  clay 
That  he  may  study  models  ?     For  an  end 
Outside  himself,  he  ever  speaks  himself; 
And  end,  with  him,  is  use." 

"  Well,  I  confess 

There's  truth  in  what  you  utter,"  I  replied;  — 
"  A  modicum  of  truth,  at  least  ;    and  still 
There's  something  more  which  this  our  subtle  talk 
Has  failed  to  give  us.     I  will  not  affirm 
That  art,  recorded  in  its  thousand  forms, 
And  clothed  with  usages,  traditions,  rules, — 
The  thing  of  history — the  mighty  pile 
Of  drift  that  sweep  of  agjs  has  brought  down 
To  heap  the  puzzled  present — is  the  sum 
And  substance  of  all  art.     I  will  not  claim — • 
Nay,  mark  me  now — I  will  not  even  claim 
That  beauty  is  art's  end,  or  has  its  end 


1 84  Kathrina. 

Within  itself.     Our  tedious  colloquy 
Has  cleared  away  the  rubbish  from  my  thought, 
And  given  me  cleaner  vision.     I  can  see 
Before,  around  me,  underneath,  above, 
The  great  unrealized  ;    and  while  I  bow 
To  the  traditions  and  the  things  of  art, 
And  hold  my  theories,  I  find  myself 
Inspired  supremely  by  the  Possible 
That  calls  for  revelation — by  the  forms 
That  sleep  imprisoned  in  the  snowy  arms 
Of  still  unquarried  truth,  or  stretch  their  hands 
At  sound  of  sledge  and  drill  and  booming  fire, 
Imploring  for  release.     I  turn  from  men, 
And  stretch  my  hands  toward  these.      I  feel — I  know- 
That  there  are  mighty  myriads  waiting  there, 
And  listening  for  my  steps.     Suppose  my  age 
Should  fail  to  give  them  welcome  :    ay,  suppose 
They  may  not  help  a  man  to  coin  a  dime 
Or  cook  a  dinner  :    they  will  fare  as  well 
As  much  of  God's  truth  fares,  though  clothed  in  forms 
Divinely  chosen.     Does  God  ever  stint 
His  utterance  because  no  creature  hears  ? 
Is  it  a  grand  and  goodly  thing,  to  spend 
Brave  life  and  precious  treasure  in  a  search 
For  palpitating  water  at  the  pole, 
That  so  the  sum  of  knowledge  may  be  swelled, 
Though  pearls  are  not  increased  ;    and  something  less 


Kathrina.  185 

To  probe  the  Possible  in  art,  or  sit 

Through  months  of  dreary  dark  to  catch  a  glimpse 

Of  the  live  truth  that  quivers  with  the  jar 

Of  movement  at  its  axle  ?     Is  it  good 

To  garner  gain  beyond  the  present  need, 

Won  by  excursive  commerce  in  all  seas ; 

And  something  less  to  pile  redundantly 

The  spoil  of  thought  ?  " 

"These  latest  words  of  yours  ,K 
She  answered  musingly,  "  impress  me  much  ; 
And  yet,   I  think  I  see  where  they  will  lead, 
Or.  rather,  fail  to  lead.     Your  fantasy 
Is  beautiful  but  vague.     The  Possible 
Is  a  vast  ocean,  from  which  one  poor  soul, 
With  its  slight  oars,  can  float  but  flimsy  freight  y 
Yet  I  would  help  your  courage,  for  I  see 
Where  your  sole  motive  lies.     Go  on,  and  prove 
Whether  your  scheme  or  mine  holds  more  of  good  ; 
And  take  my  blessing  with  you." 

Then  she  rose5 

And  kissed  my  forehead.     Looking  in  her  face, 
By  the  sharp  light  that  touched  her,  I  was  thrilled 
By  her  flushed  cheeks  and  strangely  lustrous  eyes. 
She  spoke  not ;    but  I  heard  the  sigh  she  breathed—" 
The  long-drawn,  weary  sigh — as  she  retired ; 


1 86  KatJirina. 

And  then  the  Possible,  which  had  inspired 
So  wondrously  my  hope,  drooped  low  around, 
And  filled  me  with  foreboding. 

Had  her  life 

Been  chilled  by  my  neglect  ?     Was  it  on  wane  ? 
Could  she  be  lost  to  me  ?     Oh !    then  I  felt, 
As  I  had  never  felt  before,  how  mean 
Beside  one  true  affection  is  the  best 
Of  all  earth's  prizes,  and  how  little  worth 
The  world  would  be  without  her  love — herself! 

But  sleep  refreshed  her,  and  next  morn  she  sat 
At  our  bright  board,  in  her  accustomed  place  ; 
And  sunlight  was  not  sweeter  than  her  smile, 
Or  cheerfuller.     My  quick  fears  died  away  ; 
And  though  I  saw  that  she  had  lost  the  fire 
Of  her  young  life,  I  comforted  myself 
With  thinking  that  it  was  the  same  with  me — 
The  sure  result  of  years. 

My  time  I  gave 

To  my  new  passion,  rioting  at  large 
In  the  fresh  realm  of  fancy  and  of  thought 
To  which  the  passion  bore  me,  and  from  which 
I  strove  to  gather  for  embodiment 
Material  of  art. 


Kathrina.  1 87 

The  more  I  dreamed, 

The  broader  grew  my  dream.     The  further  on 
My  footsteps  pushed,  the  brighter  grew  the  light ; 
Till,  half  in  terror,  half  in  reverence, 
I  learned  that  I  had  broached  the  Infinite ! 
I  had  not  thought  my  Possible  could  bear 
Such  name  as  this,  or  wear  such  attribute; 
And  shrank  befitting  distance  from  the  front 
Of  awful  secrets,  hid  in  awful  flame, 
That  scorched  and  scared  me. 

So,  more  humble  grown, 
And  less  adventurous,  I  chose,  at  last, 
My  theme  and  vehicle  of  song,  and  wrote. 
My  faculties,  grown  strong  and  keen  by  use, 
Bent  to  their  task  with  earnest  faithfulness, 
And  glowed  with  high  endeavor.     All  of  power 
I  had  within  me  flowed  into  my  hand ; 
And  learning,  language — all  my  life's  resource — • 
Lay  close  around  my  enterprise,  and  poured 
Their  hoarded  wealth  of  imagery  and  words 
Faster  than  I  could  use  it.     For  long  weeks, 
My  ardent  labor  crowded  all  my  days, 
Invaded  sleep,  and  haunted  e'en  my  dreams  : 
And  then  the  work  was  done. 

I  left  it  there, 
And  sought  for  recreative  rest  in  scenes 


1 88  Kathrina. 

That  once  had  charmed  me — in  society 
Where  I  was  welcome  :  but  the  common  talk 
Of  daily  news — of  politics  and  trade — 
Was  senseless  as  the  chatter  of  the  jays 
In  autumn  forests.     No  refreshing  balm 
Came  to  me  in  the  sympathy  of  men. 
In  my  retirement,  I  had  left  the  world 
To  go  its  way  ;  and  it  had  gone  its  way, 
And  left  me  hopelessly. 

I  told  my  wife 

Of  my  dissatisfaction  and  disgust, 
But  found  small  comfort  in  her  words.     She  said  : 
'"The  world  is  wide,  and  woman's  vision  short; 
But  I  have  never  seen  a  man  who  turned 
His  efforts  from  his  kind,  and  failed  to  spoil 
All  men  for  him — himself,  indeed,  for  them  ; 
And  he  who  gives  nor  sympathy  nor  aid 
To  the  poor  race  from  which  he  seeks  such  boon 
Must  be  rejoiced  if  it  be  generous  ; 
Content,  if  it  be  just.     Society 
Is  a  grand  scheme  of  service  and  return. 
We  give  and  take  ;  and  he  who  gives  the  most, 
In  ways  directest,  wins  the  best  reward." 

By  purpose,  I  closed  eyes  upon  my  work 
For  many  weeks,  resisting  every  day 


Kathrina.  i8g 

The  impulse  to  review  the  glowing  dream 

My  fancy  had  engendered  :  for  I  wished 

To  go  with  faculty  and  fancy  cooled 

To  its  perusal.     I  had  strong  desire, 

So  far  as  in  me  lay,  to  see  the  work 

With  the  world's  eyes,  for  reasons — ah !  I  shrink 

From  writing  them  !     All  men  are  sometimes  weak, 

And  some  are  inconsistent  with  their  wills. 

If  I  were  one  of  these,  think  not  I  failed 

To  justify  my  weakness  to  myself, 

In  ways  that  saved  my  pride. 

Yet  this  was  true; 

I  had  an  honest  wish  to  learn  how  far 
My  work  of  heat  had  power  to  re-inspire 
The  soul  that  wrought  it,  and  how  well  my  verse 
Had  clothed  and  kept  the  creature  of  my  thought ; 
For  memory  still  retained  the  loveliness 
That  filled  the  fresh  conceit. 

When,  in  good  time, 

Rest  and  diversion  had  performed  their  work. 
And  the  long  fever  of  my  brain  was  gone, 
I  broached  my  feast,  first  making  fast  my  door. 
That  so  no  eye  should  mark  my  greedy  joy 
Or  my  grimaces, — doubtful  of  the  fate 
That  waited  expectation. 


Kathrina. 

It  were  vain 

To  try,  in  these  tame  words,  to  paint  the  pang, 
The  faintness  and  the  chill,  which  overwhelmed 
My  disappointed  heart.     My  welded  thoughts 
Which,  in  their  whitest  heat,  had  bent  and  bound 
My  language  to  themselves,  imparting  grace 
To  stiffest  words,  and  meanings  fresh  and  fine 
To  simplest  phrases,  interfusing  all 
With  their  own  ardency,  and  shining  through 
With  smoothly  rounded  beauty,  lay  in  heaps 
Of  cold,  unmeaning  ugliness.     My  words 
Had  shrunk  to  old  proportions,  and  stood  out 
In  hard,  stiff  angles,  challenging  a  guess 
Of  what  they  covered. 

Meaningless  to  me, 

Wrho  knew  the  meaning  that  had  once  informed 
Its  faithless  numbers,  what  way  could  I  hope 
That,  to  my  own,  or  any  future  age, 
My  work  should  speak  its  full  significance  ? 
My  latest  child,  begot  in  manly  joy, 
Conceived  in  purity,  and  born  in  toil, 
Lay  dead  before  me, — dead,  and  in  the  shroud 
My  hopeful  hands  had  woven  and  bedecked 
To  be  its  chrisom. 

Then  the  first  I  learned 
Where  language  finds  its  bound — learned  that  beyond 


Kathrina.  191 

The  range  of  human  commerce,  save  by  force, 
It  never  moves,  nor  lingers  in  the  realm 
It  thus  invades,  a  moment,  if  the  voice 
Of  human  commerce  speak  not  the  demand  ; — 
That  language  is  a  thing  of  use  ; — that  thought 
Which  seeks  a  revelation,  first  must  seek 
Adjustment  in  the  scale  of  human  need, 
Or  find  no  fitting  vehicle. 

And  more  : 

That  the  great  Possible  which  lies  outside 
The  range  of  commerce  is  identical 
With  the  stupendous  Infinite  of  God, 
Which  only  comes  in  glimpses,  or  in  hints 
Of  vague  significance,  so  dim,  so  vast, 
That  subtlest,  most  prehensile  language,  shrinks 
From  plucking  of  its  robes,  the  while  they  sweep 
The  perfumed  air ! 

I  closed  my  manuscript, 

And  locked  it  in  my  desk.     Then  stealing  forth; 
I  sought  the  bustle  of  the  street,  to  drown 
In  the  great  roar  of  careless  toil,  the  pain 
That  brings  despair.     My  last  resource  was  gone; 
And  as  I  brooded  o'er  the  awful  blank 
Of  hopeless  life  that  waited  for  my  steps, 
A  fear  which  I  had  feared  to  entertain 


192  Kathrina. 

Found  entrance  to  my  heart,  and  held  it  still, 
Almost  to  bursting. 

Not  alone  my  life 

Was  sliding  from  me  ;    for  my  better  life, 
My  pearl  of  price,  the  jewel  in  my  crown, 
My  wife  Kathrina,  growing  lovelier 
With  every  passing  day,  arose  each  morn 
From  wasting  dreams  to  paler  loveliness, 
And  sank  in  growing  weariness  each  night, 
And  hotter  hectic,  to  her  welcome  bed. 
Her  bed !     The  sweet,  the  precious  nuptial  bed ! 
Bed  sanctified  by  love  !     Bed  blest  of  God 
With  fruit  immortal !     Bed  too  soon  to  be 
Crowned  with  the  glory  of  a  Christian  death ! 
Ah  God !     How  it  brought  back  the  agony, 
And  the  rebellious  hate  of  other  years — 
The  hopeless  struggle  of  my  will  with  Him 
Whose  will  is  law  ! 

Thus  torn  with  mingled  thought: 
Of  fear,  despair  and  spite,  I  wore  away 
Miles  of  wild  wandering  about  the  streets, 
Till  weariness  at  last  compelled  my  feet 
To  drag  me  to  my  home. 

Before  my  door 
Stood  the  familiar  chair  of  one  whose  call 


Kathrina.  1 93 

Was  ominous  of  ill.     My  heart  grew  sick 
With  flutter  of  foreboding  and  foredoom ; 
But  in  swift  silence  I  flew  up  the  steps, 
And,  blind  with  stifled  frenzy,  reached  the  side 
Of  my  poor  wife.     She  smiled  at  seeing  me, 
But  I  could  only  kneel,  and  bathe  her  hands 
With  tears  and  kisses.     In  her  gentle  breast — 
True  home  of  love,  and  love  and  home  to  me — 
The  blood  had  burst  its  walls,  and  flowed  in  flame 
From  lips  it  left  in  ashes. 

In  her  smile 

Of  perfect  trustfulness,  I  caught  first  glimpse 
Of  that  aureola  of  fadeless  light 
Which  spans  my  lonely  couch,  and  kindles  hope 
That  when  my  time  shall  come  to  follow  her, 
My  spirit  may  go  out,  enwreathed  and  wrapped 
By  the  familiar  glory,  which  to-night 
Shall  brood  o'er  all  my  vigils  and  my  dreams  1 
9 


DESPAIR. 

AH  !  what  is  so  dead  as  a  perished  delight ! 

Or  a  passion  outlived !  or  a  scheme  overthrown ! 
Save  the  bankrupt  heart  it  has  left  in  its  flight, 

Still  as  quick  as  the  eye,  but  as  cold  as  a  stone ! 

The  honey-bee  hoards  for  its  winter-long  need, 
The  treasure  it  gathers  in  joy  from  the  flowers  ; 

And  drinks  in  each  sip  of  its  silvery  mead 

The  flavor  and  flush  of  the  sweet  summer  hours. 

But  a  pleasure  expires  at  its  earliest  breath  : 
No  labor  can  hoard  it,  no  cunning  can  save  ; 

For  the  song  of  its  life  is  the  sigh  of  its  death, 
And  the    sense  it    has  thrilled  is  its    shroud  and  its 
grave. 

Ah!  what  is  our  love,  with  its  tincture  of  lust, 
And  its    pleasure  that   pains  us   and    pain  that    en 
dears, 

But  joy  in  an  armful  of  beautiful  dust 
That  crumbles,  and  flies  on  the  wings  of  the  years  ? 


Katlirina.  195 

And  what  is  ambition  for  glory  and  power, 
But  desire  to  be  reckoned  the  uppermost  fool 

Of  a  million  of  fools,  for  a  pitiful  hour, 

And  be  cursed  for  a  tyrant,  or  kicked  for  a  tool  ? 

Nay,  what  is  the  noblest  that  art  can  achieve, 
But  to  conjure  a  vision  of  light  to  the  eyes, 

That  will  pale  ere  we  paint  it,  and  pall  ere  we  leave 
On  the  heart  it  betrays  and  the  hand  it  defies  ? 

We  love,  and  we  long  with  an  infinite  greed 

For  a  love  that  will  fill  our  deep  longing,  in  vain  s 

The  cup  that  we  drink  of  is  pleasant,  indeed, 
Yet  it  holds  but  a  drop  of  the  heavenly  rain. 

We  plan  for  our  powers  the  divinest  we  can  ; 

We  do  with  our  powers  the  supremest  we  may  ; 
And,  winning  or  losing,  for  labor   and  plan 
The  best  that  we  garner  is — rest  and  decay ! 

Content — satisfaction — who  wins  them  ?    Look  down  ! 

They  are  held  without  thought  by  the  dolts  and  the 

drones  : 
'Tis  the  slave  who  in  carelessness  carries  the  crown  ; 

And  the  hovels  have  kinglier  men  than  the  thrones 


1 96  KatJirina. 

The  maid  sings  of  love  to  the  hum  of  her  wheel  ; 

And  her  lover  responds  as  he  follows  his  team  ; 
They  wed,  and  their  children  come  quickly  to  sea) 

In  fulfilment  the  pledge  of  their  loftiest  dream. 


With  humblest  ambitions  and  homeliest  fare, 
Contented,  though  toiling,  they  travel  abreast, 

Till  the  kind  hand  of  death  lifts  their  burden  of  care. 
And  they  sink,  in  the  faith  of  their  fathers,  to  rest 

Did  I  beg  to  be  born  ?     Did  I  seek  to  exist  ? 

Did  I  bargain  for  promptings  to  loftier  gains  ? 
Did  I  ask  for  a  brain,  with  contempt  of  the  fist 

That  could  win  a  reward  for  its  labor  and  pains  ? 

Was    it    kind — the    strong    promise    that    girded    my 
youth  ? 

Was  it  good — the  endowment  of  motive  and  skill  ? 
Was  it  well  to  succeed,  when  success  was,  in  truth, 

But  the  saddest  of  failure  ?     Make  answer,  who  will  ! 


Do  I  rave  without  reason?      Why,  look  you,  I  pray! 

I  have  won  all  I  sought  of  the  highest  and  best ; 
But  it  brings  me  no  guerdon  ;  and  hopeless,  to-day, 

I  am  poorer  than  when  I  set  out  on  the  quest. 


Kathrina.  197 

Oh !  emptiness !  Life,  what  art  thou  but  a  lie, 

Which  I  greeted  and  honored  with  hopefullest  trust  \ 

Bah !  the  beautiful  apples  that  tempted  my  eye 
Break  dead  on  my  tongue  into  ashes  and  dust ! 

"  A  Father  who  loves  all  the  children  of  men"? 

"  A  future  to  fill  all  these  bottomless  gaps"  ? 
But  one  life  has  failed  :  can  I  fasten  again 

With  my  faith  and  my  hope  to  a  specious  Perhaps  J 

O  !  man  who  begot  me  !     O  !  woman  who  bore  ! 

Why,  why  did  you  call  me  to  being  and  breath  ? 
With  ruin  behind  me,  and  darkness  before, 

I  have  nothing  to  long  for,  or  live  for,  but  death ! 


PART  IV. 
CONSUMMATION. 

A  GUEST  was  in  my  house — a  guest  unbid — 

Who  stayed  without  a  welcome  from  his  host, — 

So  loathed  and  hated,  on  such  errand  bent, 

And  armed  with  such  resistless  power  of  ill, 

I  dared  not  look  him  in  the  face.     I  heard 

His  tireless  footsteps  in  the  lonely  halls, 

In  the  chill  hours  of  night  ;  and,  in  the  day, 

They  climbed  the  stairs,  or  loitered  through  the  rooms 

With  lawless  freedom.     Ever  when  I  turned 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  him.     His  shadow  stalked 

Between  me  and  the  light,  and  fled  before 

My  restless  feet,  or  followed  close  behind. 

Whene'er  I  bent  above  the  couch  that  held 

My  fading  wife,  though  looking  not,  I  knew 

That  he  was  bending  from  the  other  side, 

And  mocking  me. 

Familiar  grown,  at  last, 
He  came  more  closely — came  and  sat  with  me 


KatJirina.  190 

Through  hours  of  revery  ;  or,  as  I  paced 
My  dimly-lighted  room,  slipped  his  lank  arm 
Through  mine,  and  whispered  in  my  shrinking  ear 
Such  fearful  words  as  made  me  sick  and  cold. 
He  took  the  vacant  station  at  my  board, 
Sitting  where  she  had  sat,  and  mixed  my  cup 
With  poisoned  waters,  saying  in  low  tones 
That  none  but  I  could  hear  : 

"  This  little  room, 

Where  you  have  breakfasted  and  dined  and  supped. 
And  laughed  and  chatted  in  the  days  gone  by, 
Will  be  a  lonely  place  when  we  are  gone. 
Those  roses  at  the  window,  that  were  wont 
To  bloom  so  freely  with  the  lady's  care, 
Already  miss  her  touch.     That  ivy-vine 
Has  grown  a  yard  since  it  was  tied,  and  needs 
A  training  hand." 

Rising  with  bitter  tears 
To  flee  his  presence,  he  arose  with  me, 
And  wandered  through  the  rooms. 

"  This  casket  here"— 

I  heard  him  say  :   "  Suppose  we  loose  the  clasp. 
These  are  her  jewels — pretty  gifts  of  yours. 
There  is  a  diamond  :    there  a  string  of  pearls. 


2OO  Katlirina. 

That  paly  opal  holds  a  mellowed  fire 

Which  minds  me  of  the  mistress,  whose  bright  soul, 

Glows  through  the  lucent  whiteness  of  her  face 

With  lambent  flicker.     These  are  legacies  : 

She  will  not  wear  them  more.     Her  taste  and  mine 

Are  one  in  this,  that  both  of  us  love  flowers. 

Ay,  she  shall  have  them,  too,  some  pleasant  day, 

When  she  goes  forth  with  me ! 

"So?    what  is  this  ? 

Her  wardrobe  !     Let  the  door  be  opened  wide  J 
This  musk,  so  blent  with  scent  of  violets, 
Revives  one.     You  remember  when  she  wore 
That  lavender  ? — a  very  pretty  silk  ! 
Here  is  a  moire  antique.     Ah  !  yes — I  see ! 
You  did  not  like  her  in  it.     'Twas  too  old, 
And  too  suggestive  of  the  dowager. 
There  is  your  favorite — that  glossy  blue — 
The  sweet  tint  stolen  from  the  skies  of  June — 
But  she  is  done  with  it.     I  wonder  who 
Will  wear  it,  when  your  grief  shall  find  a  pause  ! 
Your  daughter— possibly  ?     .     .     .     You  shiver,  sir ! 
Is  it  the  velvet?     Like  a  pall,  you  think! 
Well,  close  the  door ! 

"  Those  slippers  on  the  rug  : 
The  time  will  come  when  you  will  kiss  their  soles 


Kathrina.  201 

For  the  dear  life  that  pressed  them.     Their  rosettes 

Will  be  more  redolent  than  roses  then. 

You    did     not    know     how    much    you     loved    your 

wife  ? 
I  thought  so  ! 

"This  way!     Let  us  take  our  stand 
Beside  her  bed.     Not  quite  so  beautiful 
To  your  fond  eyes  as  when  she  was  a  bride, 
Though  still  a  lovely  woman !     Seems  it  strange 
That  she  is  yours  no  longer  ? — that  her  hand 
Is  given  to  another — to  the  one 
For  whom  she  has  been  waiting  all  her  life, 
And  ready  all  her  life  ?     Your  power  is  gone 
To  punish  rivals.     There  you  stand  and  weep, 
But  dare  not  lift  a  finger,  while  with  smiles 
And  kindly  welcome  she  extends  her  hands 
To  greet  her  long-expected  friend.     She  knows 
Where  I  will  take  her — to  what  city  of  God, 
What  palace  there,  and  what  companionship. 
She  knows  what  robes  will  drape  her  loveliness, 
What  flowers  bedeck  her  hair,  and  rise  and  fall 
Upon  the  pulses  of  her  happy  breast. 
And  you,  poor  man !  with  all  your  jealous  pride. 
Have  learned  that  she  would  turn  again  to  you, 
And  to  your  food  and  furniture  of  life, 
With  disappointment. 
9* 


2O2  Kathrina. 

"•  Ay,  she  pities  you— 

Loves  you,  indeed  ;  but  there  is  One  she  loves 
With  holier  passion,  and  with  more  entire 
And  gladder  self-surrender.     She  will  go — 
You  know  that  she  will  go — and  go  with  joy  ; 
And  you  begin  to  see  how  poor  and  mean, 
When  placed  beside  her  joy,  are  all  your  gifts, 
And  all  that  you  have  won  by  them. 

"  Poor  man  I 

W'eeping  again !     Well,  if  it  comfort  you, 
Rain  your  salt  tears  upon  her  waxen  hands, 
And  kiss  them  dry  at  leisure  !     Press  her  lips, 
Hot  with  the  hectic  !     Lay  your  cold,  wet  check 
Against  the  burning  scarlet  of  her  own  : 
Only  remember  that  she  is  not  yours, 
And  that  your  paroxysms  of  grief  and  tears 
Are  painful  to  her." 

Ah !  to  wait  for  death ! 
To  see  one's  idol  with  the  signature 
Of  the  Destroyer  stamped  upon  her  brow. 
And  know  that  she  is  doomed,  beyond  all  hope  ; 
To  watch  her  while  she  fades  ;  to  see  the  form 
That  once  was  Beauty's  own  become  a  corpse 
In  all  but  breathing,  and  to  meet  her  eyes 
A  hundred  times  a  day — while  the  heart  bleeds — • 


Kat/.irina.  203 

With  smiles  of  smooth  dissembling,  and  with  words 

Cheerful  as  morning,  and  to  do  all  this 

Through  weeks  and  weary  months,  till  one  half  longs 

To  see  the  spell  dissolved,  and  feel  the  worst 

That  death  can  do  :  can  there  be  misery 

Sadder  than  this  ? 

My  time  I  passed  alone, 
And  at  the  bedside  of  my  dying  wife. 
She  talked  of  death  as  children  talk  of  sleep, 
When — a  forgetful  blank— it  lies  between 
Their  glad  impatience  and  a  holiday. 
The  morrow — ah  !  the  morrow  !     That  was  name 
For  hope  all  realized,  for  work  all  done, 
For  pain  all  passed,  for  life  and  strength  renewed. 
For  fruitage  of  endeavor,  for  repose, 
For  heaven  ! 

What  would  the  morrow  bring  to  me  ? 
The  morrow — ah  !  the  morrow  !     It  was  blank — 
Nay,  blank  and  black  with  gloom  of  clouds  and  night 
Never  before  had  I  so  realized 
My  helplessness.     I  could  not  find  relief 
In  love  or  labor.     I  could  only  sit, 
And  gaze  against  a  wall,  without  the  power 
To  pierce  or  climb.     My  pride  of  life  was  gone. 
My  spirit  broken,  and  my  strife  with  God 


2O4  KatJirina. 

Was  finished.     If  I  could  not  look  before, 
I  dare  not  look  above  ;  and  so,  whene'er 
I  could  forget  the  present,  I  went  back 
Upon  the  past. 

i 

One  soft  June  day,  my  thoughts, 
Touched  by  some  song  of  bird,  or  glimpse  of  green, 
Returned  to  life's  bright  morning,  and  the  Junes 
That  flooded  with  their  wealth  of  life  and  song 
The    valley    of    my    birth.      Again    I    walked     the 

meads, 

Brilliant  with  beaded  grass,  and  heard  the  shrill, 
Sweet  jargon  of  the  meadow-birds.     Again 
I  trod  the  forest  paths,  in  shade  of  trees 
With  foliage  so  tender  that  the  sun 
Shot  through  the  soft,  thin  leaves  its  virid  sheen, 
As  through  the  emerald  waters  of  the  sea. 
The  scarlet  tanager — a  flake  of  fire, 
Blown  from  the  tropic  heats  upon  the  breath 
That  brought  the  summer — caught  upon  a  twig, 
Or  quenched  its  glow  in  some  remote  recess. 
The  springing  ferns  unfolded  at  my  feet 
Their  tan-brown  scrolls,  the  tiny  star-flower  shone 
Among  its  leaves  ;  the  insects  filled  the  air 
With  a  monotonous,  reedy  resonance 
Of  whir  and  hum,  and  I  sat  down  again 
Upon  a  bank,  to  gather  violets. 


Kathrina.  205 

From  dreams  of  retrospective  joy  I  woke 

At  last,  to  the  quick  tinkle  of  a  bell. 

My  wife  had  touched  it.     She  had  been  asleep, 

And,  waking,  called  me  to  her  side.    The  note, 

Familiar  as  the  murmur  of  her  voice, 

For  the  first  time  was  strange.     Another  bell, 

With  other  music,  ran  adown  the  years 

That  lay  between  me  and  the  golden  day 

When,  up  the  mountain-path,  I  followed  far 

The  lamb  that  bore  it.     All  the  scene  came  back 

In  a  broad  flash  ;  and  with  it  came  the  same 

Strange  apprehension  of  a  mighty  change — 

A  vague  prevision  of  transition,  born 

Of  what,  I  knew  not ;  on  what  errand  sent, 

I  could  not  guess. 

I  rose  upon  my  feet, 

Responsive  to  the  summons,  when  I  heard, 
Repeated  in  the  ear  of  memory, 
The  words  my  mother  spoke  to  me  that  day  : 

"  My  Paul  has  climbed  the  noblest  mountain-height 

In  all  his  little  world,  and  gazed  on  scenes 

As  beautiful  as  rest  beneath  the  sun. 

I  trust  he  will  remember  all  his  life 

That,  to  his  best  achievement,  and  the  spot 

Closest  to  heaven  his  youthful  feet  have  trod, 


2O6  Kathrina. 

He  has  been  guided  by  a  guileless  lamb. 
It  is  an  omen  which  his  mother's  heart 
Will  treasure  with  her  jewels." 

Had  her  tongue 

Been  moved  to  prophecy  ?     Omen  of  what  ? — 
Of  a  new  height  of  life  to  be  achieved 
By  my  lamb's  leading  ?     Ay,  it  seemed  like  this  ! 
An  answer  to  a  thousand  prayers,  up-breathed 
By  her  whom  I  had  lost,  repeated  long 
By  her  whom  I  was  losing  ?     Was  it  this  ? 
Thus  charged  with  premonition^  when  I  stepped 
Into  the  shaded  room,  my  cheeks  were  pale, 
And  every  nerve  was  quivering  with  the  stress 
Of  uncontrolled  emotion.     Ah  !    my  lamb  ! 
How  white!     How  innocent!     My  lamb,  my  lamb! 
Even  the  scarlet  ribbon  which  adorned 
The  lambkin  of  my  chase  was  at  her  throat, 
Repeated  in  a  bright  geranium-flower ! 

"Loop  up  the  curtains,  love!     Let  in  the  light!" 
The  words  came  strong  and  sweet,  as  if  the  life 
From  which  they  breathed  were  at  its  tidal  flood. 
"Oh!   blessed  light!"  she  added,  as  the  sun 
Flamed  on  the  velvet  roses  of  the  floor, 
And  touched  to  life  the  pictures  on  the  wall, 
And  smote  the  dusk  with  bars  of  amber. 


Kathrina.  207 

"  Paul  i  '•' 

I  turned  to  answer,  and  beheld  a  face 
That  glowed  with  a  celestial  fire  like  his 
Who  talked  with  God  in  Sinai. 

"  Paul,"  she  said, 

"  I  have  been  almost  home.     I  may  not  tell, 
For  language  cannot  paint,  what  I  have  seen. 
The  veil  was  very  thin,  and  I  so  near, 
I  caught  the  sheen  of  multitudes,  and  heard 
Voices  that  called  and  answered  from  afar 
Through  spaces  inconceivable,  and  songs 
Whose  harmonics  responsive  surged  and  sank 
On  the  attenuate  air,  till  all  my  soul 
Was  thrilled  and  filled  with  music,  and  I  prayed 
To  be  let  loose,  that  I  might  cast  myself 
Upon  the  mighty  tides,  and  give  my  life 
To  the  supernal  raptures.     Ay,  I  prayed 
That  death  might  come,  and  give  me  my  release 
From  this  poor  clay,  and  that  I  might  be  born 
By  its  last  travail  into  life." 

"  Dear  wife,"  I  saidf 

"  You  have  been  wildly  dreaming,  and  your  brain, 
Quickened  to  strange  vagaries  by  disease, 
Has  cheated  you.     You  must  not  talk  like  this  : 


208  Kathrina. 

'Twill  harm  you.     I  will  hold  your  hand  awhile, 
And  you  shall  have  repose." 

She  smiled  and  said, 

While  her  eyes  shone  with  an  unearthly  light : 
"  You  are  not  wise,  my  dear,  in  things  like  these. 
The  vision  was  as  real  as  yourself; 
And  it  will  not  be  long  before  I  go 
To  mingle  in  the  life  that  I  have  seen. 
I  know  it,  dearest,  for  she  told  me  this." 

"She  told  you  this?"     I  said,— "  Who  told  you  this? 
Did  you  hold  converse  with  the  multitude  ? " 

"  Not  with  the  multitude,"  she  answered  me ; 
"  But  while  I  gazed  upon  the  throng,  and  prayed 
That  death  might  loose  me,  there  appeared  a  group 
Of  radiant  ones  behind  the  filmy  veil 
That  hung  between  us,  looking  helplessly 
Upon  my  struggle,  but  with  eyes  that  beamed 
With  love  ineffable.     I  knew  them  too — 
Knew  all  of  them  but  one — and  she  the  first, 
And  sweetest  of  them  all.     Pure  as  the  light 
And  beautiful  as  morning,  she  advanced ; 
And,  at  her  touch,  the  veil  was  parted  wide, 
While    she    passed    through,    and    stood    beside    mj 
bed. 


Kathrina.  209 

She  took  my  hand,  she  kissed  my  burning  cheek, 
Arid  then,  in  words  that  calmed  my  spirit,  said  : 

"  '  Your  prayer  will  soon  be  answered  ;  but  one  prayer, 

Breafhed  many  years  by  you,  and  many  years 

By  one  you  know  not,  must  be  answered  first. 

You  must  go  back,  though  for  a  little  time, 

And  reap  the  harvest  of  a  life.     To  him 

Whom  you  and  I  have  loved,  say  all  your  heart 

Shall  move  your  lips  to  speak,  and  he  will  hear. 

The  strength,  the  boldness,  the  persuasive  'power 

Which  you  may  need  for  this,  shall  all  be  yours; 

For  you  shall  have  the  ministry  of  those 

Whom  you  have  seen.     Speak  as  a  dying  wife 

Has  liberty  to  speak  to  him  she  leaves ; 

And  tell  him  this — that  he  may  know  the  voice 

That  gives  you  your  commission — tell  him  this  : 

The  lamb  has  slipped  the  leash  by  which  his  hand 

Held  her  in  thrall,  and  seeks  the  mountain-height ; 

And  he,  if  he  reclaim  her  to  his  grasp, 

Must  follow  where  she  leads,  and  kneel  at  last 

Upon  the  summit  by  her  side.     And  more  : 

Give  him  my  promise  that  if  he  do  this, 

He  shall  receive  from  that  fair  altitude 

Such  vision  of  the  realm  that  lies  around, 

Cleft  by  the  river  of  immortal  life, 

As  shall  so  lift  him  from  his  selfishness, 


2io  Kathrina. 

And  so  enlarge  his  soul,  that  he  shall  stand 
Redeemed  from  all  unworthiness,  and  saved 
To  happiness  and  heaven.'" 

Her  words  flowed  fortli 

With  the  strong  utterance,  in  truth,  of  one 
Inspired  from  other  worlds  ;  while  pale  and  faint, 
I  drank  her  revelations.     Unbelief 
Had  given  the  lie  to  her  abounding  faith, 
And  held  her  vision  figment  of  disease, 
Until  the  message  of  my  mother  fell 
Upon  my  ears.     Then  overcome,  I  wept 
With  deep  convulsions,  rose  and  walked  the  room, 
Wrung    my    clasped    hands,   and    cried    with    choking 

voice, 
"My  mother!     O!    my  mother!" 

"  Gently,  love! 

For  she  is  with  you,"  said  my  dying  wife. 
"  Nay,  all  of  them  are  with  us.     This  small  room 
Is  now  the  gate  of  heaven  ;    and  you  must  do 
That  which  befits  the  presence  and  the  place. 
Come  !  sit  beside  me  ;  for  my  time  is  short, 
And  I  have  much  to  say.     What  will  you  do 
When  I  am  gone  ?     Will  the  old  life  of  art 
Content  you  ?     Will  you  fill  your  waiting  time 
With  the  old  dreams  of  fame  and  excellence?" 


Kathrina.  2 1 1 

"Alas!"  I  answered,  "I  am  done  with  life: 
My  life  is  dead  ;  and  though  my  hand  has  won 
All  it  has  striven  to  win,  and  all  my  heart 
In  its  weak  pride  has  prompted  it  to  seek 
Of  love  and  honor  ;  though  success  is  mine 
In  all  my  eager  enterprise,  I  know 
My  life  has  been  a  failure.     I  am  left 
Or  shall  be  left,  when  you,  my  love,  are  gone, 
Without  resource — a  hopeless,  worthless  man, 
Longing  to  hide  his  shame  and  his  despair 
Within  the  grave." 

"  I  thank  thee,  Lord  !  "  she  said  : 
"  So  many  prayers  are  answered !     .     .     .     You  knew 

not 

That  I  had  asked  for  this.     You  did  not  know 
When  you  were  striving  with  your  feeble  might 
For  the  great  prizes  that  beguiled  your  pride, 
That  at  the  hand  of  God  I  begged  success. 
Ay,  Paul,  I  prayed  that  you  might  gather  all 
The  good  that  you  have  won,  and  that,  at  last, 
You  might  be  brought  to  know  the  worthlessness 
Of  every  selfish  meed,  and  feel  how  weak — 
How  worse  than  helpless — is  the  highest  man 
Who  lives  within,  and  labors  to,  himself. 
Not  one  of  all  the  prizes  you  have  gained 
Contains  the  good  that  lies  in  your  despair." 


2 1 2  Kathrina. 

"Teach  me,"  I  said,  "for  I  am  ignorant; 
Lead  me,  for  I  am  blind.     Explain  the  past, 
With  all  its  errors.     Why  am  I  so  low, 
And  you  so  high  ?  " 

She  pressed  my  hand,  and  said 
:'  You  have  been  hungry  all  your  life  for  God, 
And  known  it  not.     You  lavished  first  on  me 
Your  "heart's    best    love.     You    poured    its    treasured 

wealth 

At  an  unworthy  shrine.     You  made  a  God 
Of  poor  mortality  ;  and  when  you  learned 
Your  love  was  greater  than  the  one  you  loved — 
The  one  you  worshipped — you  invoked  the  aid 
Of  your  imagination,  to  enrich 
Your  pampered  idol,  till  at  last  you  bowed 
Before  a  creature  of  your  thought.     You  stole 
From  excellence  divine  the  grace  and  good 
That  made  me  worshipful ;  and  even  these 
Palled  on  your  heart  at  last,  and  ceased  to  yield 
The  inspiration  that  you  craved.     You  pined, 
You  starved  for  something  infinitely  sweet ; 
And  still  you  sought  it  blindly,  wilfully 
In  your  poor  wife, — sought  it,  and  found  it  not, 
Through  wasted  years  of  life. 

"  And  then  you  craved 
An  infinite  return.     You  asked  for  more 


Kathrina.  2 1 3 

Than  I  could  give,  although  I  gave  you  all 
That  woman  can  bestow  on  man.     You  knew 
You  held  my  constant  love,  unlimited 
Save  by  the  bounds  of  mortal  tenderness  ; 
fcnd   still   you   longed   for   more.      Then   sprang   yout 

scheme 

For  finding  in  the  love  of  multitudes, 
And  in  their  praise,  that  which  had  failed  in  me. 
You  wrote  for  love  and  fame,  and  won  them  both 
By  manly  striving — won  and  wore  them  long. 
All  good  there  is  in  love  and  praise  of  men, 
You  garnered  in  your  life.     On  this  reward 
You  lived,  till  you  were  sated,  or  until 
You  learned  it  bore  no  satisfying  meed — 
Learned  that  the  love  of  many  was  not  more 
Than  love  of  one.     With  all  my  love  your  own, 
With  love  and  praise  of  men,  your  famished  soul 
Craved  infinite  approval — craved  a  love 
Beyond  the  love  of  woman  and  of  man. 

"  Then  with  new  hope,  you  apotheosized 
Your  cherished  art,  and  sought  for  excellence 
And  for  your  own  approval ;  with  what  end, 
Your  helplessness  informs  me.     You  essayed 
The  revelation  of  the  mighty  forms 
That  dwell  in  the  unrealized.     You  sought 
To  shape  your  best  ideals,  and  to  find 


214  Kathrina. 

In  the  grand  scheme  your  motive  and  reward. 
All  this  blind  reaching  after  excellence, 
Was  but  the  reaching  of  your  soul  for  God. 
Imagination  could  not  touch  the  height ; 
And  you  were  baffled.     So,  you  failed  to  find 
The  God  your  spirit  yearned  for  in  your  art, 
And  failed  of  self-approval. 

"  You  have  now 

But  one  resource, — you  are  shut  up  to  this  : 
You  must  bow  down  and  worship  God  ;  and  give 
Your  heart  to  him,  accept  his  love  for  you, 
And  feast  your  soul  on  excellence  in  him. 
So,  a  new  life  shall  open  to  your  feet, 
Strown  richly  with  rewards  ;  and  when  your  steps 
Shall  reach  the  river,  I  will  wait  for  you 
Upon  the  other  shore,  and  we  shall  be 
One  in  the  life  immortal  as  in  this. 
O  !  Paul  !  your  time  is  now.     I  cannot  die 
And  leave  you  comfortless.     I  cannot  die 
And  enter  on  the  pleasures  that  I  know 
Await  me  yoi\der,  with  the  consciousness 
That  you  are  still  unhappy." 

All  my  life 

Thus  lay  revealed  in  light  which  she  had  poured 
Upon  its  track.     I  learned  where  she  had  found 


Kathrina.  215 

#er  peaceful  joy,  her  satisfying  good, 

And  where,  in  my  rebellious  pride  of  heart, 

Mine  had  been  lost.     She,  by  an  instinct  sure, 

Or  by  the  grace  of  Heaven,  had  in  her  youth, 

Though  sorely  chastened,  given  herself  to  God 

And  through  a  life  of  saintly  purity — 

A  life  of  love  to  me  and  love  to  all — 

Had  feasted  at  the  fountain  of  all  love. 

Had  worshipped  at  the  Excellence  Divine, 

And  only  waited  for  my  last   adieu 

To  take  her  crown. 

I  sat  like  one  struck  dumb. 
I  knew  not  how  to  speak,  or  what  to  do. 
She  looked  at  me  expectant  ;  while  a  thrill 
Of  terror  shot  through  all   my  frame. 

"  Alas  !  " 
She  said,  "  I  thought  you  would  be  ready  now." 

At  this,  the  door  was  opened  silently, 

And  our  dear  daughter  stood  within  the  room. 

Alarmed  at  vision  of  the  sudden  change 

That  death  had  wrought  upon  her  mother's  face, 

She  hastened  to  her  side,  and  kneeling  there, 

Bowed  on  her  breast  with  tears  and  choking  sobs, 

Her  heart  too  full  for  speech. 


216  Kathrina. 

"  Be  silent,  dearl" 

The  dying  mother  said,  resting  her  hand 
Upon  her  daughter's  head.     "  Be  silent,  dear! 
Your  father  kneels  to  pray.     Make  room  for  him, 
That  he  may  kneel  beside  you." 

At  her  words, 

I  was  endowed  with  apprehensions  new  ; 
And  somewhere  in  my  quickened  consciousness, 
I  felt  the  presence  of  her  heavenly  friends, 
And  knew  that  there  were  spirits  in  the  room. 
I  did  not  doubt,  nor  have  I  doubted  since, 
That  there  were  loving  witnesses  of  all 
The  scenes  enacted  round  that  hallowed  bed. 
Ay,  and  they  spoke.     Deep  in  the  innermost 
I  heard  the  tender  words,  "  O  !  kneel  my  son ! — " 
A  sweet  monition  from  my  mother's  lips. 

"  Kneel!  kneel !"     It  was  the  echo  of  a  throng. 

"  Kneel !   kneel !  "      The   gentle   mandate  reached  m, 

heart 

From  depths  of  lofty  space.     It  was  the  voice 
Of  the  Good  Father. 

From  the  curtain  folds, 
That  rustled  at  the  window,  in  the  airs 


Kathrinu.  2\J 

That  moved  with  conscious  pulse  to  passing  wings, 
Came  the  «same  burden  "Kneel!" 

"  Kneel!  kneel!  O!  kneel!" 
In  tones  of  earnest  pleading,  came  from  lipa 
Already  pinched  by  death. 

A  hundred  worlds. 

Imposed  upon  my  shoulders,  had  not  bowed 
And  crushed  me  to  my  knees  with  surer  power. 
The  hand  that  lay  upon  my  daughter's  head 
Then  passed  to  mine  ;  but  still  my  lips  were  dumb. 

"  Pray ! "  said  the  spirit  of  my  mother. 

"Pray!" 
The  word  repeated,  came  from  many  lips. 

"  Pray !  "  said  the  voice  of  God  within  my  soul ; 
While  every  whisper  of  the  living  air 
Echoed  the  low  command. 

"  Pray  !  pray  !    O  J  pray  ?* 
My  dying  wife  entreated,  while  swift  tears 
Slid  to  her  pillow. 

Then  the  impulse  came, 
And  I  poured  out  like  water  all  my  heart. 


218  KatJirina. 

"O!  God!"  I  said,  "be  merciful  to  me 
A  reprobate  !     I  have  blasphemed  thy  name. 
Abused  thy  patient  love,  and  held  from  thee 
My  heart  and  life  ;    and  now,  in  my  extreme 
Of  need  and  of  despair,  I  come  to  thee. 
O !  cast  me  not  away,  for  here,  at  last, 
After  a  life  of  selfishness  and  sin, 
I  yield  my  will  to  thine,  and  pledge  my  soul— 
All  that  I  am,  all  I  can  ever  be — 
Supremely  to  thy  service.     I  renounce 
All  worldly  aims,  all  selfish  enterprise. 
And  dedicate  the  remnant  of  my  power 
To  thee  and  those  thou  lovest.     Comfort  me  ! 
O!  come  and  comfort  me,  for  I  despair! 
Give  me  thy  peace,  for  I  am  rent  and  tossed  1 
Feed  me  with  love,  else  I   shall  die  of  want  1 
Behold  !   I  empty  out  my  \vorthlessncss, 
And  beg  thee  to  come  in,  and  fill  my  soul 
With  thy  rich  presence.     I  adore  thy  love  ; 
I  seek  for  thy  approval  ;    I  bow  down, 
And  worship  thee,  the  Excellence  Supreme. 
I've  tasted  of  the  sweetest  that  the  world 
Can  give  to  me  ;    and  human  love  and  praise. 
And  all  of  excellence  within  the  scope 
Of  my  conception,  and  my  power  to  reach 
And  realize  in  highest  forms  of  art, 
Have  left  me  hungry,  thirsty  for  thyself- 


Kathrina.  219 

0  !    feed  and  fire  me  !     Fill  and  furnish  me  ! 
And  if  thou  hast  for  me  some  humble  task — 
Some  service  for  thysejf,  or  for  thy  own — 
Reveal  it  to  thy  sad,  repentant  child, 

Or  use  him  as  thy  willing  instrument. 

1  ask  it  for  the  sake  of  Jesus  Christ, 
Henceforth  my  Master  !  " 

Multitudes,  it  seemed, 

Responded  with  "  Amen  ! "  as  if  the  word 
Were  caught  from  mortal  lips  by  swooping  choirs 
Of  spirits  ministrant,  and  borne  away 
In  sweet  reverberations  into  space. 

I  raised  my  head  at  last,  and  met  the  eyes 
Bright  with  the  light  of  death,  and  with  the  dawn 
Of  opening  heaven.     The  smile  that  overspread 
The  fading  features  was  the  peaceful  smile 
Of  an  immortal, — full  of  faith  and  love — 
A  satisfied,  triumphant,  shining  smile, 
Lit  by  the  heavenly  glory. 

"  Paul,"  she  said, 

'  My  work  is  done  ;    but  you  will  live  and  work 
These  many  years.     Your  life  is  just  begun, 
Too  late,  but  well  begun  ;    and  you  are  mine, 
Now  and  forevermore.     .     .     .     Dear  Lord  !  my  thanks 
For  this  thy  crowning  blessing !  " 


220  KatJirina. 

Then  she 

And  raised  her  eyes  in  a  seraphic  trance, 
And  lifted  her  thin  fingers,  that  were  thrilled 
With  tremulous  motion,  like  the  slender  spray 
On  which  a  throbbing  song-bird  clings,  and  pours 
His  sweet  incontinence  of  ecstasy, 
And  then  in  broken  whispers  said  to  me  : 
"  Do  you  not  hear  them  ?     They  have  caught  the  news-, 
And  all  the  sky  is  ringing  with  their  song 
Of  gladness  and  of  welcome.     '  Paul  is  saved  ! 
Paul  is  redeemed  and  saved."     I  hear  them  cry  ; 
And  myriad  voices  catch  the  new  delight, 
And  carry  the  acclaim,   till  heaven   itself 
Sends  back  the  happy  echo  :    '  Paul  is  saved  /  '  " 

She  stretched  her  hands,  and  took  me  to  her  breast. 
I  kissed  her,  blessed  her,   spok'e  my  last  adieu, 
And  yielded  place  to  her  whom  God  had  given 
To  be  our  child,     After  a  long  embrace, 
She  whispered:  "I  am  weary;  let  me  sleep!" 

She  passed  to  peaceful  slumber  like  a  child, 
The  while  attendant  angels  built  the  dream 
On  which  she  rode  to  heaven.     Not  once  again 
She  spoke  to  mortal  ears,  but  slept  and  smiled, 
And  slept  and  smiled  again,  till  daylight  passed. 
The  night  came  down  ;    the  long  hours  lapsed  away ; 


Kathrina.  221 

Ihe  city  sounds  grew  fainter,  till  at  last 
We  sat  alone  with  silence  and  with  death. 
At  the  first  blush  of  morning  she  looked  up, 
And  spoke,  but  not  to  us  :   "I'm  coming  now!* 

1  sought  the  window,  to  relieve  the  pain 

Of  long  suppressed  emotion.     In  the  East, 

Tinged  with  the  golden  dawn,  the  morning  star 

Was  blazing  in  its  glory,  while  beneath, 

The  slender  moon,   at  its  last  rising,  hung, 

Paling  and  dying  in  the  growing  light, 

And  passing  with  that  leading  up  to  heaven. 

My  daughter  stood  beside   her  mother's  bed, 

But  I  had  better  vision  of  the  scene 

In  the  sweet  symbol  God  had  hung  for  me 

Upon  the  sky. 

Swiftly  the  dawn  advanced, 

And  higher  rose,  and  still  more  faintly  shone, 
The  star-led  moon.      Then,  as  it  faded  out, 
Quenched  by  prevailing  day,  I  heard  one  sigh- 
A  sigh  so  charged  with  pathos  of  deep  joy, 
And  peace    ineffable,   that  memory 
Can  never  lose  the  sound ;  and  all  was  past  { 


222  Kathrina, 

The  peaceful  summer-day  that  rose  upon 

This  night  of  trial  and  this  morn  of  grief, 

Rose  not  with  calmer  light  than  that  which  dawned 

Upon  my  spirit.     Chastened,  bowed,  subdued, 

I  kissed  the  rod  that  smote  me,  and  exclaimed  : 

"  The  Lord  hath  given  ;    the  Lord  hath  taken  away 

And  blessed  be  his  name  1  " 

Rebellion  slept. 

I  grieved,  and  still  I  grieve  ;  but  with  a  heart 
At  peace  with  God,  and  'soft  with   sympathy 
Toward  all  my  sorrowing,  struggling,  sinful  race. 
My  hope,  that  clung  so  fondly  to  the  world 
And  the  rewards  of  time,  an  anchor  sure 
Now  grasps  the  Eternal  Rock  within  the  veil 
Of  troubled  waters.     Storms  may  wrench  and  toss, 
And  tides  may  swing  me,  in  their  ebb  and  flow, 
But  I  shall  not  be  moved. 

Once  more  !  once  more 

1  shall  behold  her  face,  and  clasp  her   hand  1 
Once  more — forevermore  ! 

So  here  I  give 

The  gospel  of  her  precious,  Christian  life. 
I  owe  it  to  herself,  and  to  the   world. 


Kathrina.  223 

Grateful  for  all  her  tender  ministry 
In  life  and  death,  I  bring  these  leaves,  entwined 
With  her  own  roses,  dewy  with  my  tears, 
And  lay  them  as  the  tribute  of  my  love 
Upon  the  grave  that  holds  her  sacred  dust. 


ENp. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIO  ALLBRAR    FACLTY 


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A     000713034     7 


